


Colliding Empires

by Wonderwall_JM



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Arthur Conan Doyle Cases, Cups of Tea, Drug Use, Emotionally unstable, Huge brick wall of feelings, John Makes Deductions, Lies, Moriarty is Dead, Multi, Murder, Mystery, Sentimental Moriarty, Sentimental Sherlock, Sexual Tension, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock Makes Deductions, You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit, detective stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:24:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 70,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6306379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderwall_JM/pseuds/Wonderwall_JM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London is an empire on its own. Streets filled with different shades of amber lights, people with different layers of complexion and buildings standing with different tales. Sherlock Holmes knows every insignificant fragment of London. He’d even go so far to say it is his domain, his empire. But even those shadows cast by those amber lights can be misleading, and so can your own mind.</p><p>A (I don't know how long story) about Sherlock Holmes and the ghosts from his past coming back to haunt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snap Out Of It

**Author's Note:**

> Alright lads how's it going? So, basically, this is my first fic so if it is really bad then I apologise. And I also apologise for the feelings you may encounter during this (I don't know how long) story. So bear with lads.
> 
> I have used some of Arthur Conan Doyle's short stories of the famous detective so I have blended it in with my own wacky story. So, I thank you sir.
> 
> Enjoy my first fic and I hope you find much joy reading it as I did writing it. Here goes

  1. Snap Out Of It



\- What's been happening in your world? What have you been up to?

There were too many types for Sherlock to process. Why does Great Britain see fit to have so many different types of the delightful beverage that is tea? PG Tips was crossed off the list immediately considering there was an odd looking puppet/sock thing gracing the front of the box. It is tea, not a child’s toy. Sherlock’s eyes wandered to the next row of boxes where there was another brand printed on to the box. Before Sherlock could even begin to consider if this tea would suffice for Mrs Hudson, images began filling him of days spent in Yorkshire with his despicable brother Mycroft and his parents. Wet, windy and strangely tranquil. No, Yorkshire Tea shall not be in 221B. The place was miserable enough with John not there and the ramblings of Mrs Hudson. The next was Twinings which seemed the most alluring so far. The most important factor (being the tea itself) were in a black box with a little pointless pattern on the front with no strange talking sock thing or unwanted memories clung to them.

The detective grabbed the box of Twinings from the shelf and began fast walking towards the aisle the biscuits were situated. He felt as if the biscuits should be next to where the tea was situated. Tea and biscuits obviously go wonderfully together so why don’t the shop save the hassle for people and place them together? This time he needed no time to think of what brand or what type of biscuit to buy because there is obviously only one winner; pink wafers. With a little smile and his heart skipping a beat, he scooped up 5 packets of pink wafers and headed towards the shops exit, purposely forgetting to pay for his much needed biscuits and tricky tea.

  

\--

  

“Mrs Hudson! I feel as if I should give you the tea now otherwise they shall be under the sink for the rest of eternity.” Sherlock shouted into the oddly silent hallway. There was no sound emitting from Mrs Hudson’s apartment. No sound of the television, radio or the sound of clanking pots and pans. It then crossed Sherlock’s mind how quiet the streets of central London were and the shop he stole from. The streets of London weren’t echoing with the thump of pubs and clubs or the wailing of emergency vehicles. No alarmingly bright red buses trailing through the unusually empty roads. Sherlock was pulled out of his recollection of his way home at the sound of the locks of Mrs Hudson’s front door. Sherlock watched as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared in her dressing gown, all heavy-eyed and hair ruffled.

“Ah, Mrs Hudson” he says while handing her the cold box of Twinings, “I hope this tea will suffice considering I have absolutely no idea which tea brand you usually buy. There are too many to choose from. Britain as a nation is very indecisive.”

Mrs Hudson didn’t reply and instead stood with a vacant face looking directly at Sherlock. The detective furrowed his eyebrows at her facial expression, unsure why she looked so puzzled. Instead, Sherlock brushed off her silence and began walking towards the stairs. “I will be in the kitchen. Two sugars.” He states before taking one last glance at her before ascending the stairs.

Sherlock arrived into 221B and paused by the doorway, looking over the furnishings, paper and random bits and pieces of his flat. His flat. It was odd even to think it was just his now. For so long he had shared the flat with John that it was quite unpleasant seeing it so empty. John’s chair was correctly placed the left side of the fire still and for Sherlock it was extremely comforting to still have his chair in the flat. A piece of John always with him for when he is not there. And recently his visits have become less frequent. The arrival of the Watsons baby has disturbed the usual days of murder, mystery and mayhem.

Sherlock brushed away the thoughts and headed for his chair. While delicately placing himself in his chair, he grabbed a packet of his recently stolen pink wafers and began munching on the pink rectangles of happiness. Pink wasn’t one of his favourite colours. Sherlock thought about the time he was made to wear a pink shirt by his parents. Absolutely hideous considering he also had chickenpox at the same time. He locked that memory firmly away and focused on eating the whole packet which was innocently waiting to be devoured.

\--

Sherlock shuffled a little, the cold becoming more prominent as soon as he moved. Deciding that was a bad decision, he groaned before focusing on the voice that became louder by the second before it surfaced out of the mist and into the open.

“Sherlock!”

He jolted, sitting bolt upright from the power in the voice, answering the best he could, “H-hey whoa… I didn’t… oh.” He was fully aware of the figure in front of him and to his surprise, it was John.

“Rough night?” John joked, placing himself in his chair while gesturing towards the pink crumbs over Sherlock’s jacket and the half eaten packet of wafers wrapped in his arms.

“Hmph.” Sherlock replied flatly, brushing the remainder of crumbs from himself. He felt a little embarrassed at the state of him but then again John has only seen him in a sheet at Buckingham Palace. Sherlock heavily sighed at the memory.

“So, um, any improvements on the Blessington case?” John awkwardly asked, focusing more on the pink wafer packet that Sherlock was still cradling. John knew he liked pink wafers but not to this extent. Maybe it was his new addiction and on that thought, John smiled slightly, laughing inside much more than intended.

Sherlock sighed once again, “No. I visited the practice out of hours last night to see if our two sly men would return to collect something they didn’t retrieve the first time however, there was nothing. Not even an attempt of a break in. Thoroughly disappointed if I must say.”

John nodded before falling silent, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock clutching his pink wafers. It was amusing to see Sherlock attached to something so simple and unusual. John glanced up to find the detective’s brows furrowed, eyes piercing through him in an innocent way.

“What?” Sherlock replied innocently, unaware of John biting the inside of his cheek.

“W-wh… Why are you holding that?”

“Holding what?” he replied innocently, once again.

“That.” John stated, gesturing towards the pink wafer packet. Was Sherlock actually unaware of himself clutching the packet or was he trying to act innocent? John’s bet was on the latter.

The detective glanced down at his arms wrapped around the pink wafers like it was a precious childhood teddy. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep here in his chair and he certainly doesn’t remember Mrs. Hudson bringing him tea. He quickly glanced around the surrounding tables for a tea cup or pot of tea but there was nothing.

“What did you do with my tea cup?” Sherlock asked, only to be disappointed in the answer.

“What cup? I haven’t touched a cup,” John replied, leaning forward a little, “Look, Sherlock, we need to get on with this case. Your inbox is bursting and Lestrade isn’t exactly going to solve it without you, is he?”

Sherlock snapped his head towards John, “Get on with this case? Exactly where have you been the past few days, weeks even?” he bitterly replied. How could John even have the balls to say that to him when _he_ has been waiting on John these past weeks? Sherlock stood, “Mrs Hudson! Where is that tea I asked for SEVEN hours ago?” he shouted to the lower layers of the building, stalking over to the living room door, wafers falling to the ground in a domino fashion.

“What? Me?” John exclaimed, standing from his chair and turning to face Sherlock, “Has it slipped your mind that I have a baby and a wife to look after? Hm? The world doesn’t revolve around you, Sherlock!”

“Obviously not because according to you, the world revolves around the sun,” Sherlock said sarcastically, turning to face the doctor who was now stood right by him.

“Not this again! It is more significant than you are letting on, Sherlock. Even more significant than your pink wafers!” he yelled, the room falling silent.

The detective kept his eyes on the doctor, his eyes giving away that he was somewhat hurt at the fact John was taking the piss out of him for his love of pink wafers. Sherlock could do the same with John and his love for jumpers. He disliked arguing with John but this has been building up for weeks. It had been awkward between them when they were together. The detective didn’t know if he was imagining it or if it was an actual problem. Unfortunately, the detective realised it was the latter.

The silence was sliced by the sound of Sherlock’s mobile echoing into the room. John backed away knowing it was pointless to argue with Sherlock. He always had to have the last word, always had to win. The Reichenbach Fall was and still is a perfect example of this.

The detective dug out his phone, a little smirk working its way on his face before answering the phone. “Yes?” he rudely answered, the smirk now forming into a full sized grin. John watched on, impatiently waiting for Sherlock to hang up to let him in on the gossip.

“Marvellous” Sherlock happily replied, hanging up before grabbing his coat.

“What? What’s happened?” the doctor quickly said, watching the detective put his coat on. John stood, taking a step closer to him as he waited for Sherlock’s reply.

“Mr. Blessington has been found hanged in his bedroom.” Sherlock replied, a little excitement in his voice.

“What? When?”

“This morning,” Sherlock replied, picking up some essentials before heading towards the door, “Come on John, time is of the essence...” he paused by the door, looking back at the doctor, “The game is on!”

And on that note the detective left the room and descended the stairs, shortly followed by the doctor, who, in all honesty, had missed the thrill of the chase.


	2. The Scientist

2\. The Scientist  
\- Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions. Let's go back to the start.

It was a quiet journey to Brook Street. Sherlock didn’t see the point of making conversation with John. It’d most likely end up in an argument or even John punching Sherlock in the face. The most common arguments being either about the world revolving around the sun or about Moriarty. At the moment, it seemed to be the latter.

It had been six months since the devilish charms of James Moriarty graced every screen in Great Britain and Sherlock’s own fate had been pushed aside, for now. Since Sherlock had returned his inbox had been bursting with new cases but Moriarty was one that had to be solved. After his deductions from the plane, the detective knew Moriarty was dead. Sherlock latched on to the thought and a wave of sadness came over him. Moriarty was dead. His only equal in the world and he had shot his own brains out. The only thing was that his equal is still able to put Sherlock in a daze and prevent him solving on how he broadcast himself to the whole of Britain. They had made no progress. James Moriarty was still cocky as hell even from the grave. Mycroft was growing impatient each week but there was nothing they could do. Trying to crack the Moriarty case was even more difficult to digest than the fact the world goes around the sun.

The detective shook off Moriarty and began focusing on the case at hand. He glanced to the doctor on his right who had his eyes fixed on the window. It has been difficult with John. Their friendship has been pushed to the very edges in the past few months. John didn’t believe Moriarty was dead even though it is virtually impossible to come back to life from shooting yourself in the head. Sherlock became frustrated at the words and the fact John doesn’t believe the detective’s ruling that he is in fact dead. 

The cab luckily stopped on Brook Street to knock Sherlock out of the sour mood he had dug himself into. He stepped out the cab, shortly followed by John, cautiously strolling towards Blessington's doctors practice. Sherlock studied the surrounding buildings and people. It is vital to collect as much information of the surroundings as it could be essential to the case. 

On arriving outside, both men were greeted by Sergeant Donavon who was not so pleased to see 'the freak' as she politely puts it.

Donavon took a few steps forward, a small smirk developing on her face, “Oh, so you’re still in London then are you? I thought you would have been sent away by now.”

John took a protective step closer to the detective, even though he had royally pissed him off, “Just leave it Donavon. You know why we are here so just let us in.” The doctor simply stated. Sherlock smiled a little at the forwardness of his friend, taking a step forward before Donavon rudely stood in front of him.

“Why should I let you in? Sherlock isn’t exactly the right person to be at a crime scene seeing he was at the centre of one six months ago.” She bitterly snapped, John’s fists now clenched tight. Sherlock instead rolled his eyes, knowing that this is what she was going to be like considering he had it for a weeks. 

“Lestrade phoned Sherlock.” John replied through gritted teeth. Sherlock saved Mary’s and his life from ruin. Protectiveness and loyalty was something John thought Sherlock thoroughly deserved from him.

“Do I need to remind Lestrade that you are currently sleeping with one of the police officers on duty?” The detective interrupted, gesturing towards the officer who looked away embarrassingly when all three of them looked at him. Sherlock now had a very smug look on his face, just like he had stolen it from Donavan. 

“H-how did yo…”

“Your lipstick is currently still on his face from… last night it seems. You obviously didn’t have time to go home and change as the clothes you are presently wearing are severely creased just like they have been thrown to the floor in a moment of impatience. His Lacoste cologne has printed itself on to the fabrics of your clothes and skin. Plus…” Sherlock took a step closer, leaning to her ear, “One of your earrings is currently sitting on the top of his stab vest.”

The detective smugly pushed past a vacant faced Donavon, John following behind. The doctor and Sherlock made their way up the practice’s stairs and to Mr. Blessington’s room. As the detective walked in, Mr Blessington was hanging from the ceiling, lifeless and pale. The room seemed to have been occupied. Several items seemed to have been used before Mr Blessington supposedly took his life. On walking in, Lestrade made his way over to them both before Sherlock took off to analyse the room, Anderson observing him rather disruptively.

“Glad you could both make it,” Lestrade said walking over to stand by John, “Alright John? How’s everything at home?” Lestrade politely asked, referring to the new born baby. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the conversation taking hand. They are at the scene of a man hanging from the ceiling dead, and they want to talk about the life of a new born baby who currently doesn’t understand the concept of life and certainly doesn’t understand what anyone is saying?

“Oh, yeah, well, she is certainly keeping me up at night at the moment. The only time she doesn’t cry is when Sherlock is holding her.” John chuckled, both him and Lestrade turning to Sherlock who ignored the previous comment. 

“How’s Mary? Is she doing okay?” 

“Yeah, she’s doing fine. Sleeps most of the night... Lucky her, eh?” John joked, Lestrade smiling at the reply. Both men looked up to Mr. Blessington hanging from the ceiling, both smiles suddenly vanished from their face.

“So, what are we thinking? He gets burgled a few days previously and then hangs himself? Sad way to go.” Lestrade suggested, folding his arms. 

“Maybe the burglar took something precious and he can’t live without it.” John further suggested.

“But he said nothing was taken. Not even the money he hides in this room.” Lestrade pointed out.

“Maybe it was a precious gem or je-“

“No.” Sherlock finished for John, saving them all the pain of his ridiculous and frankly stupid conclusion.

“No? What makes you say that?” Anderson stepped in. Sherlock wished he didn’t do that.

“I said no. He didn’t commit suicide because the 'burglar' took a precious jewel or gem that was worth millions that now his life was now not worth living.” Sherlock sarcastically replied, eyes falling on John.

“What you’re saying this is murder?” Lestrade asked, surprised Sherlock could even suggested it could be murder.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” John, Lestrade and Anderson looked at each other vacantly before their eyes fell back on Sherlock. The detective rolled his eyes at how slow the three are. “Oh come on! This is primary matter!”

“So is knowing the world goes around the sun, Sherlock.” John lowly responded.

“Ugh, not now John!” Sherlock replied, hands frustratingly raising in a defensive manner. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Sherlock began his deduction process, “The cigarette ends placed in the ashtray on his desk. Three of th-“

“He’s a chain smoker. He had three then ended it.” Anderson interrupted, causing Sherlock to raise his eyebrows, extremely astonished that this was the conclusion Anderson came to. Actually, it was quite believable.

“Seriously? That’s what you got from that?” Sherlock remarked. Anderson looked to John and Lestrade who were waiting for the detective to finish his deductions. Anderson didn’t respond, implying this was his deduction. The detective rolled his eyes once again. 

“The cigarette ends. They all have different lip imprints at the ends implying that there was more than one man in this room at one point. Also the cigarettes are placed in the ashtray at different places meaning they were sat all opposite each other. It is highly unlikely that our friend Mr Blessington would have moved around the room to take a drag from different cigarettes. I mean, look at the size of him, he doesn’t move unless necessary. Plus, the seats on the visitor’s side of the desk have different indentions on them. One man fairly slim the other quite well built. You can tell by how far the indentations in the fabric spread out.” All three men who were listening to the detective took a few steps closer to examine the seats, “The men were here for a while too.”

“How can you possibly know other people were here and for how long from the indentations in the seats fabric?” John called out to the detective. 

Sherlock turned to John, a sigh escaping his lips. It really was quite obvious, "If they were here for a short period the seats cushions wouldn’t have been pressed down as far as they have been if they were here for a long time. When you fa… When you used to fall asleep in your chair,” Sherlock corrected himself because now he doesn’t. Sadness floods over the detective again, “Your seat was always lower than it was. All seats do that until they form their previous shape again. Just like a memory foam mattress.” 

“Hang on a minute Sherlock, are you saying there was more than one man here to push him to hang himself?” Lestrade asked, Sherlock once again rolling his eyes.

“What have you been doing aside chatting in the time I have discovered all this? What is it like in your placid minds? Boring, obviously.” Sherlock flatly replied, pulling his phone out of his pocket before tapping away at the screen.

“Sherlock, just, get on with it.” John lowly answered as he gestured towards the crime scene.

“Yes, men. ‘Oh, how do you know that Sherlock? Well, let me enlighten you, doofus.” Sherlock sarcastically replies.

Sherlock paused a second at his choice of words. Doofus. His mind was once again flooded with Jim Moriarty. A flashback from St. Bartholomew’s roof appeared before him. Jim, slicked back hair and impeccable suit;

 _‘There is no key DOOFUS!’_ Jim yelled in Sherlock’s face.

Eyes dark and wide like a collapsed star. A possessive, avaricious black hole. He did miss the game and the thrill Jim could give him. And even though that was the most fascinating thing about the criminal he didn’t miss the frustration he gave him and the pain he caused when he had to leave John behind for two years. But now, there is a new frustration the criminal is causing him from beyond the grave.

Sherlock snapped back to reality, getting back to the point, “The decanter,” the detective pointed at the direction of the object for his slow companions, “It is nearly empty. One ma-“

“Blessington drank it all. One last binge drink.” Anderson finished for the detective.

“Stop interrupting me Anderson!” Sherlock yelled, the forensic scientist backing away a little, “It is NOT suicide! The decanter only has about 6cm of scotch left in it and not one man could drink a decanter of that size in under 14 hours. I last saw him at eight last night when I asked him why he thought he had been burgled and it was full to the brim. Two other men were here last night and how do I know that? Three used glasses have been placed back at the decanter. The three glasses have traces of scotch in them and there are different lip marks on each glass. Mr. Blessington was not alone here last night.”

“You said you were here last night. Did you see anyone?” John asked.

“No. I came here about 3am when I was on my way home from the shops. There was no sign of a break in when I passed and there was no sign of movement inside. Plus, I was more interested in eating my pink wafers.” Sherlock replied, looking to the floor a little.

“You… Went to the shops?” John asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Sherlock quickly replied, eyes fixed on John for a moment, “Mr. Blessington must have been forced to his death between 8pm an-“

“5am.” Anderson finished for the detective.

“Yes.” Sherlock clarified for Anderson through gritted teeth. “Mr. Blessington was forced to take his death. He was wealthy, overweight and anxious.” 

“So, we are looking for two men? Any ideas who our murderers could be?” Lestrade asked, hands in pockets.

“Not at the moment. Check on his police records. This could shed some light on if he had any problems in his past that could lead to this.” Sherlock suggested, walking towards the exit.

“Where are you going? Are you not coming to Scotland Yard?” Lestrade asked following Sherlock out of the building, John trailing behind. 

“No. I’m going to do some digging of my own. Mr. Blessington looks familiar,” Sherlock assumed, brows furrowed, “If you find anything let me know. John.”

“Er yeah, I will see you later.” John said, following Sherlock down the road, “Where are we going?”

“221B. I have an appointment with some old newspapers.” Sherlock smiled, before calling for a cab.


	3. Teddy Picker

3\. Teddy Picker  
\- Let's have a game on the teddy picker.

It had been 2 hours since the detective and his doctor had left the Brook Street murder and the detective had been through 3 stacks of newspapers. John, however, was less successful with his pile. He always did this. Sherlock, 'in the zone' and leaving him to fend for himself. The doctor didn’t mind though as this was the perfect time to catch up on some much needed sleep.

John and Mary’s arrival of their new born baby Amelia was the main reason why sleep was becoming a distant memory. Mary was currently at home with Amelia, too occupied to make a journey to Baker Street. But the doctor honestly didn’t mind. It gave him a break from feeding, changing and crying. John had bought the baby to Baker Street the other week. Sherlock, however was less than impressed. The baby could have contaminated his 'experiments' and bringing her would have 'done nothing except intensify the chances of Amelia becoming more upset and agitated because she hasn’t grasped the concept of what is happening around her.' The exact words of Sherlock Holmes. How utterly charming. However, in all the moaning and groaning Sherlock had done, he spent most of the afternoon holding Amelia and she didn’t cry. Maybe there was something about the detective that fascinated Amelia; maybe his curly hair.

Sherlock, who was currently sat cross legged on the floor and on his fourth stack of newspapers, groaned in frustration, his hands ruffling his hair in one swish motion. John caught the noise from Sherlock, snapping out of his sleepy state.

“You ok?” John asked, moving on to the sofa opposite where Sherlock was sat.

“Hmph.” The detective bluntly replied, staring at a newspaper in his hands.

The doctor picked up some newspapers, scan reading them before asking Sherlock the ultimate question, “What exactly are you looking for? If you tell me, we could get through this quicker.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on newspapers, "Mr. Blessington, when I first met him the other week when Dr. Trevelyan introduced me to him, he looked familiar, like I had seen him before and I don’t mean in passing. I’m checking the newspapers from the past 10 years to see if I can find anything on him.”

“Right, ok.” John replied.

Both men started to inspect the newspapers for any traces of Mr. Blessington. It was highly unlikely Sherlock was wrong about seeing Mr. Blessington previously. Sherlock remembers mostly everything and anything except primary school stuff like the world goes around the sun.

“You need to get more sleep.” Sherlock blurted out, deductions taking over him again.

“Yes, I am fully aware of that, Sherlock.”

A little silence settled in the room. Only the sound of newspapers being picked up and placed somewhere different. Sherlock, now wanting to make conversation to prevent it from becoming even more awkward than it already was realised how strained their friendship actually was. Whenever they did talk, they argued and whenever they didn’t talk, an unwanted mist filled the room which Sherlock felt very uncomfortable with. 

Sherlock stammered a little before getting his words out, “How’s Amelia? I-Is she um still… small?”

John looked up from the newspaper, “Well, she has put on a few pounds now but she hasn’t miraculously become a teenager in 2 weeks if that’s what you are asking.”

“It wasn’t. I was um merely inquiring on how she was.” The detective quickly answered back.

John focused on the newspaper, a little smile forming at the innocence of Sherlock. It was quite sweet that he was interested in someone else’s life rather than his own. It was quite harsh to say that seeing Sherlock saved John and his wife in more ways than one but in some ways it was true.

“I’m surprised you remembered Amelia’s name.” John uttered, a smile on his face.

“I remember everyone’s name.” Sherlock smugly replied, placing another newspaper to the side.

“But you can’t remember Inspector Lestrade’s name.” John answered back, also placing another paper to the side.

Sherlock looked up from the newspaper, “Yes I do. Inspector Garry Lestrade.”

“It’s Greg.”

“Oh… I um… Knew that,” Sherlock mumbled, “I was merely testing your memory.”

Before John could even answer, Mrs. Hudson walked in with a tray containing a pot of tea and cups. John sighed, happy to see the much needed tea. Sherlock however, was less than impressed to be disturbed by Mrs. Hudson and her tea. She was 9 hours too late. 

“Oh I thought it was you John! How are you? How’s the baby and Mary? Are you both coping?” Mrs Hudson enquired, placing the tray on the little space of coffee table that was left from the newspapers. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the conversation once again taking place.

“Oh we're ok, you know. We’re coping better than we thought and Amelia, well, she is coming on a bundle. She’s even taken a liking to Sherlock.” John gestured, pouring himself a cup.

“Oh that’s lovely, isn’t it Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson happily expressed, tapping the detective on the shoulder.

“Oh yes, brilliant.” Sherlock sarcastically replied.

“Well if you ever both need a break then I’d be more than happy to look after little Amelia.” Mrs. Hudson smiled. Sherlock, rolling his eyes for what seemed the hundredth time today.

“Ah thank you Mrs. Hudson that’s great.” John smiled back.

“I will leave you boys to it then.” Mrs Hudson uttered before departing the room.

Sherlock kept working through the newspapers, trying to avoid making conversation again. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to hear about the baby, it was just it was the topic of most conversations. The other conversations were about Moriarty who played on the detective’s mind, even when he isn’t around.

 

\--

 

“YES! I KNEW IT!” Sherlock yelled in excitement. John however, was disturbed from his sleep. He sat up from his chair and pressed his eyes together to the light. Sherlock, now sat at the desk, was scanning a newspaper article. Was he really still looking through the newspapers? It has been now… 5 hours John concluded, checking his watch. He stood from his chair and made his way over to Sherlock.

“What is it? What have you got?” The doctor questioned.

“Here,” the detective pointed to the picture with the article, “Mr Blessington or should I say, Mr. Sutton.”

“What? He has another name?” John questioned trying to read the article.

“No John, Mr. Sutton is his real name. I knew I had seen him before. Mr. Sutton was an informer of a robbery.”

“He told the police about a robbery?” John asked, looking at the article.

“That’s what we are made to believe.” The detective teased. He made his way to the coat stand and slipped his coat on.

“What, Mr. Blessington was part of the robbery?” the doctor concluded, sliding on his coat too.

“He was the brains behind it all. Hard to believe I know but he is reasonably... smart” Sherlock uttered, “Time to let Lestrade know what our friend Mr. Blessington has been up to.”

And with the case solved, Sherlock smugly led the way to Scotland Yard.

 

\--

 

“Mr. Blessington was in a criminal gang.” The detective stated, walking towards Inspector Lestrade. With the article in hand, Sherlock handed it to the inspector. He examined the article before responding to the consulting detective’s deductions.

“But Mr. Sutton or as we know him Mr Blessington was the informer to that robbery. He made a statement.”

“He did that to save his own skin. He was in a criminal gang that robbed banks. Blessington’s real name was Sutton, and the other three, two of whom played the Russians that were in the practice last week, were Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat who were all part of the gang. After robbing the Worthington Bank of 700,000 pounds in 2004, Blessington (or Sutton) had turned informer, and as a result, another gang member, Cartwright, had been sentenced to prison for murdering the caretaker at the bank when in fact it was Blessington. The other three had each been given 15 years in prison.” Sherlock deducted. The smug smile still firmly on his face.

“But why would he do that? They must have been his friends so why would he grass them in to the Old Bill? There must have been evidence for him being at the crime of the scene too surely?” John questioned, folding his arms.

“Blessington was talked in to being in the gang. He didn’t really want to be part of it. He just needed the money. He was in debt from gambling his money away. Normally the main reason why most robberies take place. So he decided to frame his former gang members and keep the money. That’s why he didn’t put it into a bank and kept it in his room because he didn’t want the police getting suspicious. Also because he doesn’t trust banks to a certain extent.”

“But what about the robbery? Did he get robbed?” Lestrade questioned, leaning over the desk.

“No. He made it up. He had heard his former gang members had been released 5 years early so he was paranoid they were coming after him and they did. The two Russian men who were in the practice last week were in fact two of the former gang members. Luckily, Blessington wasn’t there when they searched his room for him. Blessington’s “paranoia” was indeed a very real fear, caused by news of their early release, not by some burglary, as he claimed. The murderers chose hanging as their form of execution to avenge Cartwright.”

“Blimey,” Lestrade exhaled, “what a way to avenge your mate.”

“Where do you think the gang members have gone?” John asked, turning to the detective.

“I’m guessing abroad. They wouldn’t want to stay here anymore. I mean they got what they wanted and that was killing Blessington.” Sherlock responded. 

“Right, we will get them on it.” The inspector declared, departing the room, shortly followed by Sherlock and John.

Both the detective and the doctor made their way out of Scotland Yard. John checking his phone for messages from Mary but there was nothing. He sighed in relief. A little more time away. Even though he wanted some space to himself sometimes, John felt as if he shouldn’t be away at all. Even though Sherlock says otherwise, he believes Moriarty is still out at large. There is no sufficient or reliable evidence to prove he is dead. He was the king of his own empire. Sherlock destroyed his network. The only person who could display Moriarty on every screen in the UK has be Moriarty himself. Only he had the power to do so and even the government were quivering in their shoes when it all happened. They both hadn’t made any progress in 6 months over how Moriarty is back. And Sherlock’s overdose on the plane doesn’t prove he is right. It only proves he is still an addict. Moriarty is still out there. No body was found on the roof. Doesn’t this prove he is staying alive?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shall update the next chapters in a few days. Hope you have enjoyed my fic so far.


	4. Holding Back The Years

4\. Holding Back The Years  
\- Thinking of the fear I've had so long.

“I have not.” 

“Yes you have. It’s obvious really. You’ve put on 3 pounds since I last saw you and we both know that isn’t from eating fruit unless it was on a cake.”

“Stop it. Now.”

“What? Why? Can’t handle the truth, brother of mine?” Sherlock replied, his face showing no reaction at all.

Mycroft sighed, “Sherlock, I have come to this disgrace you call a flat to demand you to find who is behind the Moriarty display. It has been six months and all you have found out is that the broadcasting was situated in Grove Street where there is now only a building site.”

“Yes, well, at least we tra…” Sherlock pauses, “How did you find that out? I certainly didn’t tell you.”

“Well, no Sherlock you didn’t. You’ve been rudely ignoring me and my messages so I had no choice but to come and see you to force you to get a move on.” Mycroft commanded, eyes wide, never leaving Sherlock.

“I’d love to see you try.”

Mycroft sarcastically smiled before taking a scan of the flat. His eyes falling on old scraps of paper and old case files. Newspapers scattered over the coffee table and a new case pinned to the wallpaper. It was amusing to think Sherlock liked the flat he lived in. It was very basic in regards to furniture and decoration. However, there seemed to be one thing missing, “Where is John?”

“You know exactly where he is. Stop asking stupid questions.” Sherlock snapped, standing and walking to the desk to scan over some case files.

“Ah, yes, baby Amelia. Quite a nice name, don’t you think, Sherlock?”

“It’s ample.”

“Yes, I thought so too,” Mycroft quietly replies before following his brother to the desk, “Don’t you miss him?”

“If you’re talking about John then I still see him so no I don’t miss him because I still see him.”

“Not as much as you would like though.” Mycroft utters.

The silence from Sherlock told otherwise though. Mycroft took a minute to analyse the silence from his brother. Was he being silent because he wanted to see John more often or because there was a problem resulting in him not want to? It was defiantly the latter. John was precious to the detective. Saved his life on many of an occasions. Mycroft stood straight, towering over his little brother who seemed a little more lost than intended.

“Oh Sherlock. What has happened?” Mycroft asked. The tone in his voice genuinely showed he was concerned. 

“Nothing.” His brother replied quickly and sharply. Agitated at Mycroft nagging him he moved to standing in front of his case pinned to the wallpaper. 

Mycroft moved behind him, “Sherlock, I know when you’re lying. I know you better than you know yourself. You knew it would all change when he married Mary. It’s what happens. The world moves in the same direction as its predecessors because it knows no better. Life always breaks hearts… Even yours.”

Sherlock turned his head to Mycroft, his jaw clenched tight. “My heart is ruled by my head. I am not broken and neither is my heart. Or maybe it is. Childhood wasn’t exactly simple was it? My idiot older brother abandoned me for a better life. You didn’t give a toss about me. Left me broken and even more broken after Redbe…“ Sherlock cut off, pushing past Mycroft to stand by the window.

Mycroft looked to the floor, swinging his umbrella a little beside him. He couldn’t bear to look at his brother. Not like this. It might have been over 25 years but Sherlock was still extremely hurt and in all honesty, Mycroft didn’t blame him.

“I know and… I’m sorry, Sherlock, I really am.”

Sherlock huffed in disagreement, his eyes fixed on the street below him.

“I am Sherlock. I didn’t do that out of spite. I just did it because…” Mycroft paused, “I did.

Sherlock said nothing. Ignoring his brother like he had been doing for the past 4 months. Mycroft would never understand what happened to Sherlock the day he lost Redbeard. It changed him. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure if it was for better or for worse. The latter seemed a little extreme but much more believable. The only person who understood him enough was John who at the moment wasn’t very understanding at all. There are no equals to him. Not his brother, nor Magnussen or even Mary. There once was though. One man who knew Sherlock better than he knew himself and he was currently laying in a grave. The detective pushed the thoughts aside when he saw John approaching the front door. 

Mycroft who was staring at Sherlock, eyes piercing through his back, stayed silent. Unable to produce the words that would comfort his younger brother. The damage had been done and there was nothing he could do about it now. The only thing he could do was be there for Sherlock now. It might be a little late but Mycroft felt he owed his brother that.

Before Mycroft could apologise again, John walked through the living room door. It was quite comforting to know he would be with his brother to help him after this conversation. 

“Um, shall I leave you two to um...?” John awkwardly uttered, feeling the tension in the room.

“No, John that won’t be necessary. I was just leaving.” Mycroft replied. He turned to walk out the door put paused before exiting. He turned to Sherlock, “I’m here if you need me Sherlock. Anytime, anyplace.”

John listened to the words that spilled from Mycroft’s words, looking to the floor, a little confused at what could have caused his brother to even say those words. He waited for Mycroft to depart before talking to the detective who was silent, still staring out of the window.

“You ok?” John asked, watching Sherlock. The detective didn’t reply. It was rare that he didn’t reply. He would outlive God to have the last word. He took a gentle step closer, “Sherlock? Are you ok?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t seem it.”

“I am fine, John.”

“Ok. Ok,” he replied, gently placing himself in his chair.

Sherlock’s eyes still locked on the scenery in front of him began to think about Moriarty once more. He was always there. The black soul he was always haunting him wherever he went. But the haunting was comforting in the oddest way possible. It was comforting in the way he always has an equal. Someone who was on the same wavelength as himself. And the fact that the criminal was still playing the game after his death made James Moriarty even more attention-grabbing. 

“Mycroft came to ask about how far we had got with Moriarty.” Sherlock said.

“But I’ve already told him. He asked last week and I told him that we have got nowhere.”

“I know.” The detective flatly responded. It was frustrating but stimulating at the same time. Moriarty is frustrating because he had made this impossible to crack. It is stimulating because he keeps everyone guessing and there is never a dull moment when the most notorious criminal is involved. Sherlock broke his stare from the world and made his way to his chair to sit with John.

“So what has happened with the Blessington case?” The doctor questioned. 

“The three gang members haven’t been found. However, there was a boat wreck on the coast of Portugal on Monday. The Met think it is the three men.”

“Blimey. What an end to a case.” 

“Hmph.” Sherlock flatly responded. It then caught Sherlock’s attention to why John was here. He hasn’t been here for four days. “Why… Are you here? Shouldn’t you be with Amelia?” 

“I am here because… I want to do… Some case solving.”

“Oh, well I ha-“

“On Moriarty.” John finished for the detective.

Sherlock stared at the doctor, “On Moriarty?”

“Yes… Is that a problem?”

“I um… I well… There is no problem with you wanting to do that…” Sherlock paused, “But the problem is that we don’t have anything to even begin solving it.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, you can solve anything.”

“Not everything. I’m not as amazing as everyone makes me out to be.” Sherlock answered back, looking away from his friend.

“Sherlock, I have a wife and baby to protect. I know Moriarty isn’t dead. He is a narcissist, he wouldn’t kill himself because he loved himself too much.”

“I watched him shoot himself in the mouth, John. I watched him die.”

“AND I WATCHED YOU DIE, SHERLOCK. DON’T FORGET THAT. BUT OH! YOU DIDN’T! SO WHAT MAKES YOU THINK MORIARTY WON’T FAKE HIS DEATH LIKE YOU? HM? HE IS JUST LIKE YOU.” John yells. Sherlock just doesn’t see his side of it and why would he? He always likes to be right.

Sherlock involuntary has a flashback to the roof of St. Bartholomew’s. 

_"You’re me!”_

And maybe to a certain extent he was right. Sherlock liked the same thrill as Jim, they needed each other like humans need oxygen, like plants need sunlight. The amber lights on the streets were dimmer without him around and the nights were drawn out longer. It was dull. The cases he had been receiving were adequate but they weren’t like they were when Moriarty was alive.

The detective looked to John who was still waiting for a response.

“John, I… I have nothing to go on. The broadcast happened from Grove Street but where it happened there is nothing but a building site. We have nothing on Moriarty. I’ve been tracking assassins and snipers and they have all been acting completely normal since the day Moriarty was on our screens. I destroyed Moriarty’s network. There is nothing.”

“Moriarty has a new network.” John stated.

Sherlock sighed, “No John, no. Moriarty built his empire in 25 years. He can’t rebuild it in two.”

“This is Moriarty we are talking about Sherlock. The man who strapped bombs to people for fun. The man who listens to the Bee Gees. The man who tricked the nation into believing he was a story teller called Richard Brook. This man is capable of anything and everything.”

“I WATCHED HIM DIE. IT WAS PRETTY CONVINCING. IT HUR-“

“It what?” John asked, waiting for the answer.

“Nothing.” Sherlock replied quickly, releasing what he was about to say.

The silence in the room was thick. It was an argument that reoccurred every time they saw each other. It was repetitive and boring.

“Sherlock, please, please just try and crack this. For me? Please?” John begged, his eyes fixed on the detective.

Sherlock stared back at John. He couldn’t lose his best friend. The fact Moriarty was winning was unbearable too. It needed to be solved.

“Fine. One rule though.”

“What?”

“No babies allowed.”


	5. Ocean Drive

5\. Ocean Drive  
\- Don't say a word while we dance with the devil.

After agreeing with John to start on the Moriarty case once again, both men settled to go to the building site on Grove Street to see if they could recover anything that could lead them to James Moriarty. However, they did spend the rest of the afternoon and early evening arguing over how Moriarty could have faked his death. Sherlock agreed to listen to the doctor’s theories even if they made no sense. The detective was quite astounded at how oblivious Watson was to facts. He watched Jim die. He watched the criminal mastermind shoot himself in the head. If he did fake his death then it was pretty convincing, even though Sherlock knows he didn’t. 

One of the doctor’s theories was that Moriarty used a fake gun that just made a gunshot noise and when he hit the floor, a fake blood pouch which was hidden in the collar of his coat burst. Sherlock, however, knew this was highly unlikely. The blood that was spilling from the back of his head smelt like a blood. Tangy, metallic and salty. It was fresh blood. Still warm. 

Is John forgetting that he took an overdose to prove that Moriarty was in fact dead? Yes, John might not believe him because he was supposedly “high” but that doesn’t make his deductions any less accurate. His deductions are based on facts not luck.

Both the detective and the doctor were on their way to Grove Street. It was a long cab drive to the other side of London but in that time the detective had been productive. His homeless network were still on the outlook for any abnormal behaviour from current assassins and snipers in London. He also got some of his network on to popular locations where there could be an odd incident.

John turned to Sherlock, “We found out that it was a building site but then again…. We didn’t actually look.”

“I think we came to a satisfactory conclusion.”

“What makes you think that?”

“We tracked the signal and discovered it was a building site or at the time a demolition site. The builders working on this project said they have been working on this development for 6 months. There are only 3 people who have keys to the site. The houses are newly built. No water, no gas, no electric. How could a broadcasting take place there? No source of power for it to even be transmitted. It was a dead end as soon as we discovered it was a dump.”

“Maybe one of the builders work for Moriarty.” John answered back.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock laughed, “Did you see the builders? Overweight, low IQ and no school qualifications. I know for a fact that Moriarty wouldn’t hire people like them to work on his now dead network. I mean, come on John! It has taken the builders 6 months to build the shell of the house. They are slow at their own jobs.” Sherlock deducted. A little smug smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips. It was quite amusing that John didn’t realise these very obvious things.

“You thought Moriarty was gay and from I.T. at Barts. Who says someone else can’t fool you?” John questioned. 

Sherlock didn’t reply, his lips firmly shut to prevent another argument developing. The drama establishing between the two best friends was becoming a huge problem in all cases and even in general conversation. 

Both stayed silent for the rest of the way to Grove Street. John once again paid the fair. They both decided to walk down the street to the site where they tracked the signal to. They walked in silence, Sherlock focusing on the scenery, picking up every detail, every little insignificant amber street light, every shadow cast, every little adjustment in the pavement, the number plates on the cars parked on the sides of the roads and inconsequential amendments to the road. It was part of deduction. Collecting as much information and data as possible which could ultimately be the turning point or crucial point in a case.

John, however, was more focused on reaching the building site as quickly as possible. Whoever was here knew what they were doing. They knew Sherlock was being sent to Eastern Europe and to never return. Sherlock may have been popular with the press and public, but there was only one person who was pulled to the detective the deepest. Moriarty couldn’t let the detective go. There would be no more games, no more “dancing”, no more “stimulation.” There are no ghouls to stop the hunter from being captured. 

The building site was empty, just as Sherlock had predicted. No sign of life, no sign of transmitters, no sign of corrections. The houses looked ghost like. Just white shells stood against a black sky. It was an odd place for Moriarty to even step foot in let alone work in. The devil wouldn’t wear Westwood to a building site. 

John glanced to the detective on his right. The detective concentrating on the empty houses in front of him. John cleared his throat, his vision checking the area.

“So, what do we think?” the doctor asked.

“Melancholy.” Sherlock simply answered, a doleful look on his face.

John paused, a similar word on his mind, “Gloomy.” 

“Hmph.”

John stepped close to the fence and before he picked the lock, he took one last glance at his surroundings. Sherlock’s eyes were focused on the tenebrous shells displayed before him. They weren’t inviting. Not yet. They looked like a ghost’s tea party place. 

The street was quiet. Too quite even for a London street. The cars parked along the pavement seemed to have not been used in a while. An estimation of 6 months seemed likely. The houses looked unoccupied. The residents may have moved to another location because of how deprived it was around this area or because they couldn’t stand the building site. The amber street lights were dull. They hadn’t been replaced in a while. The road was ripped to shreds. Potholes covered the street, drains sinking further into the fabric of London and slabs cracked and even some missing. The street was an utter mess. The street looked as if it hasn’t been used in months and repaired in years. No wonder the builders were taking so long to complete the build. The place was a ghost town, ruins stood on pillars of sand.

“Got it.” the doctor whispered, quietly taking the lock and chain away from the railings and fencing.

“No need to be quiet or delicate John. The street is deserted.”

“What, in London?” John answered back, not entirely convinced.

“Yes, look. The cars haven’t moved, the houses are empty, the road is crumbling away and the street lights are over 25 years old.” Sherlock deducted. He pushed past the doctor and into the building site, the sound of gravel, sand and pieces of concrete crackling under his feet. The crunching of the materials doubled in volume when John stepped into the site.

“Sherlock, wait!” John whispered, trying to keep up with the detective’s long strides. 

Sherlock approached the left house first. There seemed to be no one hiding or lurking inside so he gently cracked the door open wide enough for both himself and his companion to pass through. The first thing the detective realised was how cold it was in the house. Even though the house was sealed, it was colder than he thought. The floors were covered in dust, scraps of dust sheets and plastering tools. It was dark and dingy, the only light source being from the moonlight that was lightly seeping in through the window. The doctor took the first room to the left while the detective took the room on the right. Watson carefully strolled in a loop around the room. There seemed to be nothing untoward with the room. The doctor did spot a piece of folded piece of paper on the floor near a pile of dust sheets but was disappointed when the paper was a delivery order for plasterboard adhesive. Sherlock discovered nothing unusual in his room. It was empty and unused just like the doctor’s room. 

They both met in the hallway again, John taking the back room while Sherlock tackled upstairs. The first two rooms upstairs were empty just like downstairs. A few dust sheets and empty buckets were cluttering up the floor. The third room looked as if it was to be a bathroom. There was markings on the floor, one section marked ‘shower’ and another ‘sink’. The fourth room at the back of the house seemed to be the room that the builders were currently working on. Some plastering had been redone at the far left of the room and there was parts of the floor that was covered in dust sheets, buckets and scrap paper. Two walls had been painted white and there was markings for central heating at the centre on the right wall. Sherlock stepped cautiously around the room, being extra careful to not knock over a bucket or get paint on the precious fabric of his coat.

Suddenly, John’s footsteps were approaching and he walked into the room Sherlock was currently in. The doctor glanced around the dim area, his eyes finally landing on the detective who had just examined the floor. “There is nothing here.”

“It seems so.” Sherlock quietly uttered, “Something isn’t right. A broadcast happened from this very spot 6 months ago. A broadcast that was transmitted to the whole country but there is no trace of anything. Before the build it was just a demolition site. Just rubble. Apparently the previous houses were in such a state they had to be demolished.”

“Why would Moriarty come here to put himself on every screen in the country? He could have done it anywhere.” John questioned, taking a glance out of the back window.

“Whoever did the broadcast had to pick a destination that would leave no trace of them even being here. Where better than a building site? To broadcast yourself to the country, you need a transmitter. A transmitter modulates both picture and sound into one signal then sends this transmission over a wide range for a television set to receive.” Sherlock stated.

“They would need a huge transmitter to do that and television transmitters aren’t hard to spot.” John replied.

“So?” Sherlock questioned.

The doctor paused for second, “So… They didn’t broadcast Moriarty from here.” 

“Exactly. Whoever broadcast Moriarty to every screen in Great Britain didn’t do it from this location. They did use the transmitters across the country. Using every frequency to broadcast it on to every channel. So, how did they do it?” Sherlock asked, the answer pretty obvious to him already.

“… They hacked into the transmitting systems.” John replied after a long pause.

“Yes. So it did happen from here. It was transferred to the transmitting systems across the country like it was their very own television channel.”

“But how?” John answered back. He knew Moriarty had the power at his door but this was extremely technical.

“Honestly? I don’t know. Computer and phone hacking is becoming more and more common. Just like the News of the World phone hacking and the Sony Pictures hacking scandal. Stealing data and retrieving data is becoming easier every day because technology is improving and developing. I mean, the first data hacking scandal was in 1979.”

“Moriarty could easily have done this.” John whispered.

“Yes, John he could have but not from the grave.” Sherlock whispered sharply back.

John shook his head, laughing quietly under his breath. This was just impossible. There was no way he could convince Sherlock and he knew there was no point in trying. “Fine Sherlock. Fine.” The doctor snapped back. Then suddenly he started to make his way out of the room.

Sherlock watched as the doctor began to depart the room, a confused look on his face. “Before you leave, John, I have actua-“

John stopped and turned to the detective, “You know what, Sherlock? I’ve had it up to here,” the doctor pointed to his head, “with you. I really thought you’d understand why I think he is actually back. But you haven’t listened to me.”

“John, look before you ca-“

“Yeah you listened to my theories on how he ‘could’ be back but you proved me wrong on every, single, one. So, screw you, Sherlock!” he shouted, “I am done with Moriarty. I am done with this case. I have a wife and baby to protect. Moriarty is dead. You win.”

“John,” the detective called as he followed the doctor stomp down the stairs, “John, please look John I have…“ Sherlock was cut off by the slam of the newly fitted front door. The detective sighed heavily, looking to the floor. A wave of sadness washed over him, his eyes shutting in response. He was right. He didn’t listen to John or even reason with him. Not just now but on several occasions. But this time, John is wrong in his deductions and theories. You can’t argue or reason with facts. The biggest factor being Moriarty shooting himself in the head. No one can come back from that.

The detective slowly and silently made his way to the front door and out of the building site. Even though there was supposedly ‘nothing’ to go on, there was actually still a case. Whoever broadcast Moriarty to the nation is still out there. Questions still needed answering like who made the broadcast happen? How did the broadcast happen? Why did the broadcast take place? What are the defining motives behind the broadcast? 

With questions to be answered and a case to be solved, the detective made his long way back into the heart of London alone with a folded piece of paper in his pocket with “427 PL” written on it, which the detective found on a note in the back bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting serious, lads. Next chapter in a few days.


	6. The Man

6\. The Man  
\- I played my cards and I didn't fold.

There was something about the mornings that made Sherlock want to stay in bed. He found them pointless. Everyone potters around in the morning, trying to stay awake, stimulate their brain, drink too much fluids, rush hour traffic, mood deflated because of work and ultimately because it is too early. That’s why the detective stays in bed in the mornings, to avoid all of the above and more importantly because everyone’s best work is done in the afternoon. Or till about 4:30pm when everyone begins to slowly pack away so they can go home. 

So, the detective dragged himself out of bed just before ten and made his way to the living room while slipping on his dressing gown. Mrs Hudson was out to the shops. It is Thursday, she goes to the shops on a Thursday and obviously John doesn’t live at 221B anymore. Sherlock’s mind wandered to John for a split second. He hadn’t heard or seen him since Tuesday night. He was either still in a mood with him or he was looking after Amelia. Unfortunately, it was both.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, his eyes shifting to the mantelpiece where the note from Tuesday night was placed. 427 PL was hand written on the top of the note with building materials and their quantities underneath. It had been a day since he found it and he hadn’t uncovered what part of London it was. It was definitely a house number and part of London but it was difficult to decipher where. It could be Pimlico, Poplar, and Plaistow, Park Royal or even a building name. The builders were nowhere to be found at the building site and it would be suspicious if he just asked what it was. He needed to narrow it down but sliding into his mind palace was becoming more difficult especially with Moriarty playing on his mind. He couldn’t really shift the fact he is dead and the thought of him being used for someone else’s purposes didn’t sit well with the detective.

But luckily, Sherlock was knocked out of his daze by the sound of the door and heavy but attempting to be gentle footsteps began making their way up the stairs to 221B. The person up the stairs was making an attempt to walk quietly and gently so it is someone who is trying to not sound heavy because of their weight. Their pace is quite smooth and soft so they are a supple walker. They are currently carrying something as they have unintentionally hit it against the stair railing so the person is right handed. They are wearing formal shoes as the bottom of them have a slight clip clop to them so the person is also dressed formally to look presentable to onlookers or associates so the only person it could be…

“Mycroft if you have come to nag me again then I suggest you make your way to the front door and fast.” Sherlock threatened, looking towards the fireplace.

“I’m slightly hurt that you think I have come here to nag you, brother dear.” Mycroft softly replied, making his way to sit in the doctor’s chair.

“You always come here to nag.” Sherlock replied, his eyes on the fireplace. An image of Charles Augustus Magnussen developed and the detective quickly tried to shake it away.

“Well this time, brother dear, I have come to just make sure you are ok.” Mycroft tenderly answered, eyes on his younger brother.

“I’m fine, now leave.” The detective said through gritted teeth, eyes away from Mycroft.

“Sherlock, don’t. I meant what I said the other day.”

The younger brother finally looked towards him, “And I meant what I said.”

“There is no point arguing. Even if one person wins in an argument the loser still believes they are right so what is gained?” Mycroft questioned, Sherlock not paying attention. “Minds are what we need to store memories. Hearts are what we need to keep them memories warm and alive. I want some good memories Sherlock, not interfering criminals or petty quarrels.”

The younger brother looked at his brother. There was… truth in his eyes. In some ways, Sherlock did want that too but forgiving his brother for what he has done is something he can’t do yet. Not until Mycroft has proved himself. The detective sighed, finally looking towards his brother.

“There are some memories that are meant to be cold. Just like the shadows that are cast in our fears.” The detective quietly said.

“And some are cold because our emotions take hold.” Mycroft replied, eyes on his younger brother.

A comforting silence settled in the room like the silence in a wooden forest. For once, both brothers had found a little peace. How long it would last is a different matter.

Sherlock clapped his hands together standing, “Let’s play a game.”

“Really? We are not five, brother dear. Can’t we sit here and have a meaningful and considerate conversation?”

“No, it’s boring when you are involved in the mix.” Sherlock quickly replied.

“That’s because the matters you pick are boring, Sherlock. I don’t particularly find pleasure in talking about the different types of tobacco ash.” Mycroft reacted, placing his umbrella next to the fire.

“Chitchatting isn’t something we do either, Mycroft. It is irrelevant and tedious, especially when it comes to celebrities and… politics.” The detective smiled, slightly turning his head to look at his older brother.

“Politics isn’t your area, brother of mine.” Mycroft smugly replied.

“It isn’t yours either.” Sherlock sneered back, picking up Operation the game.

“Are we playing a game or not?” Mycroft asked to drop the subject only to turn his head to find Sherlock carrying back Operation with a sneaky smile on his face. “Really? Of all the games in the world. Monopoly, Scrabble, Balderdash. And my younger brother picked Operation… again.”

“You love it really. I can tell by your eyes.” Sherlock smiled, setting the game up on a little coffee table.

“I will never admit that.” Mycroft smiled back, settling himself into John’s chair.

“As I am younger, I go first.”

“You always go first. Let me go first.” Mycroft replied picking up the tweezers only for Sherlock to slap his hand and steal them from him. Mycroft vacantly staring at Sherlock.

The detective smiled back at his older brother only to be greeted with a straight face. This was war.

 

\--

 

“427 PL.”

“I wish builders would write in full and not abbreviate everything. It is outstandingly rude.”

“They are lazy, Sherlock dear. Especially your little builders.”

“Yes, it seems so.” The detective replied.

“Have you narrowed it down at all?” Mycroft asked, sipping his cup of tea.

“Not yet. We have been especially busy.”

It was 2:12pm in the early evening and the detective and his brother had played near enough every game under the roof of 221B and in all honesty, both Sherlock and Mycroft enjoyed every second. Having some quality time together for the first time in years was… nice. A new chapter for the both of them. No clients or phone calls or unwanted people disturbed them. They happily played games, drank tea and both laughed together for the first time since their childhood years.

Sherlock had in an odd way missed his brother. It was nice to get him all to himself just like he always did when he was younger. Mycroft felt happy to have his brothers company back, with only jokes and not insults between them. It had been too long for both of them. Sherlock hadn’t completely forgiven his brother but it was a start and a good start too.

“Yes we have. We’ve been very productive and dusted all the games.” Mycroft joked, taking another sip of his tea.

“Mrs. Hudson will be proud of us.” Sherlock replied, smiling while taking a gulp from his tea.

“I have to give it to you Sherlock, you do make a good cup of tea.” Mycroft approved, smiling at his brother.

Sherlock didn’t say anything but instead beamed into his cup of tea while taking a gulp. Mycroft rarely complimented people especially his brother so Sherlock decided to relish in it. 

“PL… Petticoat Lane? Pimlico? Poplar?” Mycroft questioned viewing the piece of paper.

The detective sighed, “I have thought of the possible places in London and trying to decipher what…“ the detective paused, “What did you just say?” 

“Poplar? Pimlico? Park Royal?” Mycroft re-tracked.

“No. No, you said something different. You said… Petticoat Lane.” Sherlock stood, his hands against his lips. “Yes. Yes. YES! Of course, how could I have been so stupid! Of course the builders didn’t write an area of London because it is too vague. They wrote a road name or in this case the name of a lane in London.”

“There are hundreds of lanes in London starting with a P.” Mycroft laughed.

“Yes there is, but there isn’t many lanes in London that go up to house number 427.” Sherlock stated, grabbing his laptop.

Mycroft stood, walking to his brother sat at the desk. “Don’t forget wherever these materials came from needs to be somewhere of high quality. The builders told you it was a highly approved associate who bought the plot to build on.” 

“Hmph.” Sherlock replied, engrossed in his laptop.

“Could this be a break through?” The older brother questioned, focusing on the computer screen.

“It could be. I’m not getting my hopes up. I’ve been disappointed so far.”

“Who would carry on keeping the spirit of Moriarty alive? I mean, he wasn’t exactly anyone’s number one friend.” Mycroft chuckled.

“Hmph.”

Sherlock’s fingers began tapping away at the keyboard, trying to search for the mystery lane. Mycroft grabbed a London street map from the book case and began searching for the lane. 

“You’ll need to inform John. He will want to know about this.” Mycroft muttered, eyes scanning the pages of the book.

“He said he was ‘done’ with Moriarty.” Sherlock bitterly replied.

“People like John do not mean what they say, Sherlock. He is your best friend and you are his. He deserves to know.” Mycroft softly stated.

“Fine. Though he probably still won’t want to know.”

“Well, when you tell him, tell him to dress formally, smartly and appropriately.”

“Why? Why are you saying that?” Sherlock questioned his brother, standing and making his way to look at what Mycroft had found, “Oh.”

Mycroft pointed to the road on the map:

427 Park Lane

“I think it’s time to pay a visit, don’t you, Sherlock?” Mycroft turned to his brother.

Sherlock’s only reply was a large smirk that finally he was getting somewhere on Moriarty’s mystery.

 

\--

 

Sherlock gazed up at the glorious, white building before him. Park Lane, famous for its mansions, hotels and elegance among other London streets. It was the afternoon, and the golden sun was shining on the clean white shield on the houses. It made the buildings too bright to look at. The white now becoming a bleached yellow. Windows reflecting the light caused the eyes to look away with fear of becoming blind.

427 was occupied by a Ronald Adair, a colonial governor in Australia. Well regarded among foreign embassies and was extremely liked by friends, family and acquaintances. It was hard to believe he was involved in the dissemination of Moriarty and even more implausible that he has anything to do with the building site back on Grove Street. However, it seemed that he is. 

The detective then spotted a short man, stalking towards him. The walk of a soldier, good posture and mannerism. Only one person it could be…

“Of all places it had to be here. I had to get this suit pressed especially for this, Sherlock. And I only just persuaded Mary to let me come.” John stated, straightening his suit.

“Hello to you too, John.” Sherlock smiled, eyes still on the white structure.

“What are we doing here? Why are the builders associated with this place?” John asked, glancing to the building.

“That is what we are here to find out. Plus, the gentleman we are seeing is very unlikely to be our man. So, we need to be gentle with what we say.” Sherlock turned to John.

“Trust me, Sherlock, I am not the one to be abrupt and rude.” John chuckled, smiling at Sherlock for what seemed the first time in months.

Sherlock smiled back at the doctor. The very thought of Sherlock smiling at John, seemed more like hallucination than a reality. The bad patches between them were becoming more like black holes. But even patches can be stitched back together again. Sherlock took the lead towards the building, “You wanted to escape the baby and Mary though, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I bloody well did. I was going mad being cooped up indoors all day.” John responded, following the detective towards the building.

“Thought so.” Sherlock smiled, pressing the door buzzer.

“Who are we seeing?” John whispered.

“Ronald Adair, Colonial Governor in Australia.”

“Colonial Governor? I thought them roles had been abolished?” John whispered back, checking for any sign of movement inside.

“Apparently not.” Sherlock whispered back before pressing the buzzer again.

Finally someone answered, “The Adair residence.”

“Ah, good afternoon. This is Mycroft Holmes speaking.” John rolled his eyes in pure disbelief. Sherlock was once again impersonating his brother, “I have an appointment with Mr. Adair for 3:00pm.”

“Ah, Mr Holmes we was expecting you. Do come through.” The lady softly spoke before opening the front door.

“Seriously Sherlock, Mycroft of all people? We are in deep shit already. Did you not learn anything from Baskerville? Does your brother even know?” John whispered sharply from behind the detective.

“Yes, he does. He was the one that made the appointment.”

John said nothing back to the detective. No words could be formed after the detective’s previous statement. Mycroft made this possible? What has been happening since he had been away?

The detective and doctor made their way into 427 Park Lane. A grand stair case was gracing the centre of the lobby with a 16th Century Crystal Chandelier hanging from the hand painted ceiling. Images of flowers, water and sky covered the ceiling bringing a light and warm feeling to the lobby. Grand maroon furnishings were spread to the left side of the staircase, a reception desk made of pure oak, the smell gracing the room was to the left of the front door. Alarmingly red carpets had been laid upon the white and black tiled floor which was gleaming so bright that a reflection of most items in the room graced the tiled floor. Vases with bright and fresh flowers were scattered among the tables and tiled floor. It was grand. Mycroft would be in his element here.

“Mr Holmes,” The elegant lady greeted, shaking Sherlock’s hand. Her eyes fell on John, her smile becoming a little weaker, “And this is?” she said, gesturing to the doctor beside the detective.

“Mr Watson.” John finished, shaking her hand.

“Ah. You didn’t state you would be bringing a guest, Mr Holmes.”

“He is my personal body guard.” Sherlock lied, only for John to snap his head up to the detective. 

The lady examined the height difference between the two men. A body guard that was shorter than himself? It seemed odd. “Oh. How does that work…?”

“Mr Watson was in the army. Afghanistan to be precise.” Sherlock replied.

“Oh, well, I see now.” She smiled to John whose face was less than amused. “Do follow me gentleman. Mr Adair is this way.” She gestured to the staircase and led the way with both men following closely behind. 

The footsteps cast by the three echoed throughout the house. The echo was so vigorous, so compelling that even ones emotions could be echoed into the empty space. And to Sherlock’s surprise, emotions was something he was experiencing much more than intended. The pressure of Moriarty and the consulting criminal’s presence not only in his mind palace but in his insane but wonderful reality was haunting. Just like the echoes of his shoes against the polished tiles was haunting and ringing around the staircase. If there was one thing Moriarty could do from beyond the grave, it was become even more alluring and haunting.

The two men were lead down a brightly decorated hallway upstairs. Vases bursting with flowers and plants were scattered among the floor just like the lobby. The smell of carnations, lilies, sunflowers and roses were among the vases. Orchids bloomed higher than the rest in 17th Century French clay pots. The aroma in the air was mesmeric. It was hard to believe they were in a Park Lane house.

After knocking on the door twice, a soft voice came from behind the varnished wood. On opening the door, Adair was stood by the open windows of what seemed to be a study of some sort, overlooking the hustle and bustle of the brightly sun lit streets of London. They made their way in, Sherlock’s eyes falling on everything in the room. Even more flowers among cabinets and some large vases on the floor, full with some new blossoms to the previous ones in the house. Chrysanthemum gave a new fragrance to the air, cheerful and sunny. The desk was scattered with paper containing bank statements, orders, invoices. Some seem to have been sent from Eastern Europe from the stamp on the envelopes. A decanter was placed on a glass cabinet with several glasses, one seemed to have been used. Next to it was 3 bottles of Scottish whiskey. The room was lightly coloured. Most of the furniture the same colour as the furniture downstairs. The house had a casual vibe, with bursts of class and magnificence.

“Mycroft Holmes and his guest John Watson, sir.”

The medium sized man turned happily, a smile gracing his face. His eyes were a neutral hazel, his hair matching his eyes. He had no stubble. Fresh, smart and elegant. A navy blue suit made by Giorgio Armani hung precisely on his frame with a light blue silk tie. Adair was dressed to impress. 

He walked towards his desk, “Thank you, Elizabeth. Well, it is a pleasure to finally meet you Mr Holmes and Mr Watson.” He greeted, shaking both men’s hands before gesturing them to take a seat, “Over 15 years in the business and I hadn’t even got to meet the man behind the British Government, until now.” He smiled.

“Is there a reason we haven’t met? Seeing as you’re the colonial governor for Australia, I thought our paths would have crossed at some point before now.” Sherlock faked, smiling back. John looking away to prevent giving them both away as frauds. Well, more like Sherlock away.

“Ah, there is a flaw in all of this. Colonial governor is a little outdated in this day and age. The British Government don’t really have colonies anymore and since Australia isn’t really owned by this brilliant country, it gets a bit tense, even after over 100 years.” He chuckled, shuffling some papers into a pile.

Sherlock watched him closely, causing the doctor to make conversation. 

“So, what really is your function as colonial governor? If you don’t mind me asking.” John asked, trying to ignore the detective’s silence. 

“No, no, not at all, Mr Watson,” he reassured, “I make sure the Commonwealth law is being met within Australia. It’s a very demanding job I have to admit. You see, Commonwealth has many flaws within the punishment system. I have to deal with all the backlash from both this government and the government on the other side of the world.” He finished, shaking his head a little. “But surely you’re not here for that?” he questioned, eyes falling on them both.

“We are here to talk about your involvement with the building of three houses on Grove Street.” Sherlock blurted out, face blank, still, emotionless. 

“Sherlock…” John muttered under his breath, shaking his head at the forwardness of the detective.

“Oh. Well, long story I’m afraid. Long being the operative word…” Adair replied, leaning back in his chair.

“Six months to build 3 houses? I mean, it is highly believable to be fairly honest seeing as your builders aren’t the brightest of sparks,” Sherlock said sharply, “Why are you involved with a shabby street like Grove Street? 

Adair stared at the detective, completely still. “Why is it any business of yours?”

“The whole street could be pulled down because of the state that it is in. It is my business to tell you this and to ask why you are building there.” Sherlock lied, face as blank as a sheet of paper.

Adair sighed, leaning forward until his arms were flat on the table, “I won the plot in a game of cards. I didn’t know it was in such a bad state.”

“Cards?” John questioned, quite shocked the classy and straight forward man in front of him liked a flutter and a gamble.

“Whist.” He clarified. 

“Whist? Isn’t that something they played in the 19th Century?” John questioned, looking to Sherlock for the answer whose eyes was still focused on Adair.

“A trick-taking card game played in partnership.” Sherlock answered.

“Well, I normally only play for money. Not extortionate amounts though. Only a few hundred pounds. I mean the people I play against don’t have much money. It’s just a bit of fun, a distraction.” Adair uttered.

Sherlock removed himself from reality at the word ‘distraction’. His mind automatically flashed back to St. Bart’s roof. Moriarty with his addictive black holes as eyes and his soft, alluring accent floating sentences out of his mouth smoother than lips gliding along a body. 

_"And you were the best distraction and now I don’t even have you.”_

The saddest part about that sentence was that it was now the opposite way around. Sherlock doesn’t have Moriarty no more. No equal, no intellectual equivalent and no distraction. Moriarty was creating a distraction from beyond the grave but it wasn’t going to last long. It would either come to a halt again or it will be solved as some stupid halfwit trying to impersonate him. A fire began to burn in the detective at the thought of someone doing that. To use the great criminal for their own advantages. It angered Sherlock in the most gut-wrenching way.

In all of this though, Sherlock felt as if he was losing himself a little. He wanted to know James Moriarty. Why he was the way he was. Did he family, siblings, friends, relationships? Where did he grow up? Where did he live? So many questions and no possible way to know any of the answers. Sherlock got addicted to the sadness of that thought, like it was his own personal fix.

“Then how did you get a land plot?” John enquired, eyes narrowing.

“I normally go to a little pub near Piccadilly Circus. The Queen’s Head it’s called. Very nice inside. Some good whist players there. Love a drink too. I normally play in partnership with this guy called George but one night, he didn’t turn up so I played some solos with some other men near the back of the pub and I got drawn against this… fella.” He paused, “Tall, lean and cocky. Chewed gum, loose t-shirt and Michael Kors jeans… Trust me, I have some of those jeans, I know what they look like.” He confirmed, smiling a little, “Anyway, he offered me a house as the stake. Now, I didn’t need the house but he looked at me so cocky, so confident that he would win that I had to beat him and… I did. He didn’t really put up a fight. He chucked the keys to me and that was it. I haven’t seen him since.”

“So, he just handed you the keys to this house? No questions? No communication? No terms or conditions? He just gave you the keys and left?” John laughed, looking away in disbelief. 

“Yes. It was like he wanted to lose but he gave off such a vibe that he wanted to win that I played him.” Adair clarified, standing and walking to his decanter. 

Sherlock stood, going to stand by the open windows, the heat from the city hitting his face. “You saw the house, decided it wasn’t worth keeping and rebuilt 3 instead.” The detective elucidated, rotating to face the governor.

“Oh yes,” he laughed, pouring himself a glass of whiskey, “It was a mess. It looked like a place homeless people would have slept. The whole road looks like that. Drink?” he gestured to the decanter.

“Um, no thanks,” John politely declined, “So, what are you planning to do with the houses once they are completed?” 

“Sell them or rent them out. I haven’t quite decided,” He answered, placing himself back in his seat, “we shall see.”

“What was his name?” Sherlock demanded, eyes still on the London skyline.

“I’m not entirely sure to this day. I asked the barman at the inn the day after I had visited the house. He said Seb or Seth or something.” He waved away.

Sherlock became oddly silent. The names rang a bell but he couldn’t put his finger on why. Like when you know the answer to a question in an exam but just can’t put your finger on the right vocabulary. The detective walked away to stand by the desk. He looked towards the governor. He was telling the truth. A family man, a gambler, a lover of nature, loves expensive items and is highly regarded among acquaintances according to his letters and address book. 

“What date did you win the house?” Sherlock further questioned.

“Well, it was about 6 months ago. I just came back from Australia so, well, I had missed playing it so I had a sleep in the day and then I went to the inn about 7:30pm. It’s not too far from here you see.” He replied, drinking some more of his expensive Scottish whiskey. 

The detective nodded to his friend that it was time to leave. The doctor stood, pulling his suit down.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Adair. You have been very helpful. Just be aware that some changes will be made to the street in the next coming months.” Sherlock lied.

“Is that it? Just for the build?” He shouted as the men made their way out of the door.

“For now.” The detective smiled.

Both men made a quick exit. The fragrance in the air becoming overpowering. Sherlock wasn’t disappointed in what he gained from the governor. A new lead and a new suspect to the Moriarty case. Things seemed to be picking up a little. The names he spoke of seemed familiar already. It was just a matter of pinning down what the detective already knew.

“So, Seb, Seth or whatever he said. What do we think?” John enquired as he stepped back on to the streets of London.

“The name is familiar. New lead, new suspect. Something else to go on. We need to go The Queen’s Head. Speak to the barman in there and some of the locals. Our mystery man could have stepped back in there within these 6 months.”

“Do we think Adair is involved? He seemed a little… edgy.” John deduced, covering his eyes from the sun.

“No, he is far too liked for something like this,” Sherlock replied, walking down the street towards Marble Arch and Oxford Street, “Did you see his address book and his correspondence? Bursting with contacts and numbers. Plus he had 4 events within 3 days last week. Very well regarded and liked. His image and projection is very important to him. Definitely not our man.”

“Ok, so, are we going to Piccadilly now? I should get back to Mary and Amelia.”

“Then we will go to yours first.” Sherlock smiled, before calling a cab.

John stood still, staring at Sherlock in disbelief. He always wriggled his way out of going to see Mary and the baby. Last week it was because he had to check if the time to get from Temple London Underground to St. James’ Park was the same.

“Are you sure?” John asked, eyes narrowing at the detective.

“Yes.”

“Ok… just try not to do anything to upset the baby.” John warned, climbing into the cab.

Sherlock watched John get into the cab, “She loves me.” He answered smugly, only for the doctor to laugh at the spectacle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting darker, lads. Hold on to your hats.  
> Next chapter in a few days. xo


	7. That’s Where You’re Wrong

7\. That’s Where You’re Wrong  
\- There are no handles for you to hold and no understanding where it goes.

“She has put on more than a few pounds, John.”

“No she hasn’t.”

“She’s put on over 4 pounds, John.” Sherlock whispered, eyes staring at the little bundle of joy that was giggling in Mary’s lap as she pulled funny faces.

John looked up at the detective, “How can you possibl… Forget it.” John shook his head looking away, folding his arms.

“She’s beautiful.” Sherlock whispered, smiling widely.

The doctor snapped his head up to the detective. His jaw dropped in pure shock at the words that fell from the consulting detective’s mouth. Sherlock called his child beautiful. Was he alright? The pressure from the case must be going to his head. He never complimented anyone. Not even Janine when he went out with her for a brief few days. 

“W-what?” John stuttered. Eyes never leaving the detective.

“Nothing. Um, can I… hold her?” Sherlock asked Mary, placing himself softly down next to her.

“Of course, Sherlock! You’re doing me a favour actually. I’m bursting for the loo!” She chuckled, gently placing Amelia in Sherlock’s arms.

Amelia stretched her arms out to Sherlock’s curls that fell from his head. Her smile sweeter than any sweet the detective had tasted in his lifetime. Her eyes, a bright blue, the equivalent of the ocean blue in the Indian Ocean. Sherlock smiled in amazement at the soft petal in his arms. He mouthed hello as he held out his finger for her to wrap her tiny hands around. She grabbed it straight away, her skin as soft as the silk sheets in The Savoy. Her fingernails no bigger than half the size of the seeds within a flower. She was wonderful. Sherlock had underestimated her even though she will still not have grasped the concept of reality. Not until she is about 18 months. Maybe a little earlier than that by the detective’s predictions. 

John looked on in bewilderment at the detective and his new found fondness for his daughter. It was… cute in its own wacky way. A warm feeling rose from the doctor’s chest before flooding across him like a wave. It was an extraordinary sight.

“Aww, she likes you Sherlock!” Mary happily said stroking the bottoms of her feet, “Who would have thought the consulting detective would take a liking to something so small and high maintenance.” She joked, before walking to John, placing a kiss on his lips.

“Beats me.” John uttered, smiling towards Sherlock.

“Make us both a cup of tea. Sherlock will need one after a minute with her.” She joked, departing the room.

“Yeah, ok. Gonna be alright?” he gestured to the consulting detective who was too busy trying to make Amelia giggle. John just smiled lovingly back, heading into the kitchen.

Sherlock searched the room before looking back down to her.

“Well, now we are alone, I should take this moment to make a promise to you because, you are wonderful. I have to admit, I thought you’d be a huge distraction and a big problem… but… you’re not. You’re gonna be so loved. You are. You have a mummy and daddy who love you to the edges of the furthest constellations and back and you have me… who… will protect you until I breathe my last breath. And I promise not to fill your head with nonsense. Well, I will make sure John doesn’t because he is the worst for it,” Sherlock whispered, chuckling quietly. “There are wonders in your heart, and arts in your fingers and beauty in your soul. The world will be at your feet and us three, well, Mary and I will guide you to the most colourful constellations so you can be the brightest of stars.” Sherlock whispered, kissing her forehead. “By the way, I read that in a book. I know nothing about the universe.” He explained. 

Amelia giggled, grasping the detective’s finger a little tighter.

“Here.” John said, placing a cup of tea on the coffee table for Sherlock. He looked to them both. It was quite extraordinary that Sherlock and Amelia had formed such a connection so early. It was quite unbelievable at how Sherlock had taking a liking to her. He said he didn’t like babies or children because they were slow and too lively. 

“Mrs Hudson will want to see her.” Sherlock muttered, looking to John.

“Well maybe we could take her over tonight.”

“No, we are going to the pub tonight.”

“So, we could leave her there for a few hours. Give Mary a break.”

“No, because I want to be there.” Sherlock stated, looking back down at Amelia who had become a little sleepy.

“What? You… You want to be there?” The doctor stuttered.

“Yes.”

“Why? Mrs Hudson is quite capable, Sherlock.” John laughed.

“Because… I do… I want to see how she reacts to her and how well she forms a connection with her.” Sherlock lied.

“My daughter isn’t an experiment, Sherlock.” John answered back, making a clear statement. 

“I know that John, just… can we take her tomorrow? All 3 of us?” Sherlock begged, his eyes wide.

“W-wh.. Fine. Ok. Fine.”

“What’s fine?” Mary smiled, squeezing herself between both Sherlock and John.

“All three of us going to 221B tomorrow to see Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock smiled.

“Oh! That will be lovely! John said Mrs Hudson will want to look after her.”

“Good. That’s settled then,” the detective smiled before looking down at Amelia, “Oh, she is asleep.”

“What?”

“What?”

Both John and Mary said in unison. How could she be asleep that quick? It took both Mary and John over an hour for her to fall asleep last night. What does Sherlock have that both of them don’t have? Curly locks John thought to himself.

“How on Earth did you do that?” John whispered loudly.

“With gentle movements… and words.” Sherlock smiled down to her before handing her to Mary, “Anyway, we better be going John. The Queen’s Head opens in 20 minutes and I want to get there first so we do not miss one single person.”

“Oh, right,” John said before kissing Mary’s and the babies foreheads, “I love you both. I will see you soon.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Mary joked, before placing Amelia in the middle of a pile of cushions and pillows, to dream upon feathered clouds and stars of wonder.

 

\--

 

When Sherlock said he wanted to be the first in the pub, he was not joking. 5:30pm The Queens Head opened and they were in there exactly on 5:30pm, sat in the corner of the pub, with a glass of beer each. John was reading the local newspaper and Sherlock’s eyes analysing everything he could see. There was 6 people in the pub in total. John, the detective, a couple who were tourists, another middle age man having a pint and the barman. It was quiet seeing as it was early doors but to John it was heaven to be in a pub, having a pint with his best friend. He looked up from the paper to the detective who was paying no attention to the eyes upon him.

“So, what did the barman say?” John enquired, putting the paper aside.

“That isn’t the barman we want. Our barman will be here in,” he looked to his watch, “six minutes and eighteen seconds.”

“Right… How do you know that?”

“The barman currently on shift has only been working here for a few months and he told me that Scott who is the barman who we want has worked here for over 3 years and works most nights.” Sherlock explained, eyes never leaving the door.

“You actually had a civil conversation with someone?” John laughed.

“Yes. I can be polite when I want to be.” The detective replied, eyes finally falling on the doctor.

A comfortable silence fell between the two. John took a gulp from his pint, the taste tantalising his taste buds. A taste greater than anything he has tasted in the last few months. Everything he had touched, tasted or smelt had been sweeter each time he had the fortune to come across its path. It was like he had been lost at sea and coming to shore to taste something other than sea salt. On the other hand, Sherlock hadn’t even touched his yet and it was hard for the doctor to resist taking the detective’s glass of heaven too.

“So, what do we think about Moriarty now that we have made a little progress?” the doctor quietly questioned.

“We have a place of origin for the broadcast, a suspect, a witness of sorts and a gigantic unexplained hole between all three.” Sherlock sarcastically replied.

“That’s better than what we had a few days ago isn’t it? Seb or Seth or whatever has something to do with the demolished houses. The place where the broadcast happened.” John tapped on the table to the rhythm of his words.

“Ok, so, we know he gave the keys to a governor without hesitation and without fight, where the broadcast happened and he knew that Adair would demolish the house so the evidence of the broadcast got destroyed with it. However, we have no evidence that this ‘cocky’ guy actually exists and if the house that previously stood there even existed. Also we have no idea who did the broadcast, why they did, why they are impersonating Moriarty and how they actually did it. See? Huge black holes. But it does make it a little exciting I have to admit.” Sherlock finally finished with a little smile. 

“This guy could shed some light on what happened on Grove Street. Why it is deserted, if the house did stand there and who lived there?” John answered back.

“No. I have already carried out checks on the road and no one has been registered to have lived there for over 25 years.” Sherlock illuminated. 

“Great, so we are back at square one then?” John huffed.

“Not exactly but may-“

“Sherlock?” John said as the detective left to go to the newly present barman. 

“Check the stock checks for next week.” The just arrived barman said to the other. He turned to Sherlock smiling at him, “Alright mate? What can I get ya?” The young barman said, grabbing a pint glass from the shelf above him. 

The barman was of a medium sized build. Dark brown hair, average height, outgoing. East London accent with a huge tendency to be late to mostly everything. Wearing clothes from H&M and River Island so buys clothes that are from high end street stores. Lynx Deodorant and aftershave. Does like to impress his fiancé. 

“Oh nothing much just what you remember about an evening approximately 6 months ago.” Sherlock smiled.

“Six months ago? You’re having a laugh ain’t ya? I don’t even remember what I had for breakfast this mornin’ mate.” He chuckled, his arm resting on top of the beer pumps.

“I’m guessing toast as the crumbs are still presently on your shirt from this morning which further suggests that you wanted to get out of your… flat as quickly as possible. Your girlfriend has been nagging you to make arrangements for your wedding. But you don’t really want to get involved in the arrangements so you tried to get out the flat as quickly as possible to prevent such talks.” Sherlock said, without stopping for breath.

The barman looked on in astonishment. Before laughing once in disbelief. “How’d ya know that man? That’s insane.” 

“Tell me what you remember about the night when a game of whist took place and one man won a house.” Sherlock said lowly.

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, I remember that night. One of the biggest games of whist ever played in ‘ere I should imagine. Yeah… some posh geezer took on this tall, muscle guy. Scary as fuck man. Only drank scotch with some ice. Proper hard nut he looked. Looked like he belonged in the army.” The barman joked.

“Army?” Sherlock questioned, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, army. Ya know when ya look at someone and you think ‘Damn they look like they should be in particular job?”

“No.”

“Yeah, you know like, ya look at a guy in a suit and you go, ‘Yeah he deffo a stockbroker’ well I looked at this guy and I went ‘Yeah, this guy deffo in the army.”

“What was his name?” Sherlock carried on.

“Oh, um, summat like Seb. Yeah… yeah definitely Seb. One of the lads that come in ‘ere called him Sebastian and he nearly punched the living day lights outta him.” He replied.

“Have you seen him since?”

“Naa mate, na. Never seen him since and I work ‘ere most nights. He came in ‘ere on that night and it was early he came in like, like he was waitin’ for somebody. The posh geezer came in about 7:30 and he musta came in about 5:45.”

“Did he leave straight after the game?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh yeah, yeah, he made a run for it. Outta that door quicker than Usain Bolt mate.” He finished, pouring himself a pint of beer.

“Thank you that was most… helpful.” Sherlock smiled, turning to walk away.

“Ere he ain’t in trouble is he?” he called to the detective.

“No, not at all.” Sherlock lied before making his way back to John.

“So? Anything to go on?” John whispered as Sherlock placed himself back in his chair.

“Our man was in the army.”

“What? No. Seriously?”

“I think so. From what Scott was saying, I don’t think he was lying or exaggerating from what he said. He definitely thought he was in the army.” Sherlock answered back, pulling out his phone.

“What are we going to do next? We can’t get hold of army documents.” John whispered, already feeling defeated.

“Oh John for someone of your intelligence you can be remarkably thick sometimes.”

“Sherlock, if there is one per-“

“Hello brother dear,” Sherlock spoke through the phone, “How are you?”

 

\--

 

“You better have a very good explanation for keeping me up this late, Sherlock.”

“Oh stop having a tantrum, Mycroft. You are literally the British Government. Take a day off and catch up on sleep then.” Sherlock pointed out, sifting through the many files of army agents on his brother’s computer.

“Now, now, Sherlock. You know mummy told us to never sleep through the day or take naps. It makes us dysfunctional for the rest of the day.” He replied.

“I sleep until midday.”

“Exactly.”

Sherlock snapped his head to his elder brother, “What happened to the kind and caring brother I had earlier today?”

“He disappeared when you disturbed me early this evening.” Mycroft smiled, eyes on the laptop screen.

“This Sebastian could be a break through, Mycroft. The break through you have been waiting for.” Sherlock pointed out as he flicked through the files.

“And then again, it might not be.” His elder brother replied bluntly. 

“Why don’t you, you know…”

“What?”

“Leave.” Sherlock finished. 

“And leave the secrets of the British Government in your hands? Knowing you, brother dear, you’d sell it.” Mycroft stomped over to John’s chair.

“That was just to get Magnussen off of everyone’s back, including yours.” Sherlock snapped back, eyes never leaving the screen.

“And look where it ended you up. As a murderer, an exile and a druggie in the space of a week.” Mycroft bitterly replied back.

“It helped me figure out if Moriarty survived. Why don’t any of you realise that?” Sherlock snapped once again.

“Because we know of your drug habits. Well, I do.” Mycroft softly replied, eyes a little sad at the memory of Sherlock after Redbeard.

Sherlock fell silent, mind wandering back to the day when Redbeard was taken away from him. It was like a hole being ripped through his chest. A huge part of his heart died when Redbeard was taken. Nothing could replace him just like no one can replace a lost teddy or a family member once they have passed away. Redbeard was the reason why Sherlock was the way he was. Why he was more emotionless than the rest of the people he knew. A broken bone hurts less than a broken heart.

The funny thing was, if there was someone that had fitted in the space Redbeard had been, it was John. Sherlock was sentimental about him but in the way you’d be sentimental about a best friend. Sherlock knew John was his pressure point but so was Moriarty, who was more of a pressure point than John at the precise moment.

“How is John and Mary? Well I hope considering the child has been keeping up most nights.” Mycroft slyly muttered.

“How the hell do you know that?” Sherlock questioned, “But then again, you always know.” 

“I am brilliant, brother dear.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

“Then what?”

“I could say brilliantly oafish but then I’d be breaching borderline genius.” Sherlock smugly smiled.

“Oafish?” Mycroft repeated.

“Oh, no, not oafish… GOLDfish.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “Not this again, Sherlock.”

“What, brother of mine? Can’t handle exact facts?” Sherlock turned to his brother.

“No, I can’t handle your pure childishness and naïve tendency.” Mycroft spat back.

“Just passes the time.” Sherlock said back.

“Speaking of passing time, how many Sebastian’s have you found?” Mycroft asked.

“52 at the moment but I have a feeling that none fit the Sebastian I am looking for.” Sherlock replied, looking back through the Sebastian’s he had found once again, “I will send all to my laptop so I can analyse them and pick them out like fish bones.”

“Do hurry up, brother dear. I am dying of a slow and painful death just waiting for you.” Mycroft moaned, leaning his head back.

“More like a quick and sudden death because of all the cake you eat.” Sherlock sneered back.

“Oldest insult in the book.”

“But the most relevant.” Sherlock replied, voice much louder than previously.

Mycroft opened his eyes only to see Sherlock towering over him, laptop in one hand. He flinched a little at the tall figure above him before standing and taking the laptop from the detective’s hand. “Keep me informed, members of the government are becoming extremely impatient.” 

“Then I will message in about a month of any progress made.” The younger brother smiled as Mycroft headed for the exit.

“If you do that Sherlock, I will be over here every day just to irritate you.” Mycroft chuckled as he made his way down the staircase of 221B. 

“And I will place cake around 221B to dishevel you.” Sherlock shouted down the stairs before the door closed quietly.

Sherlock slumped into his chair, eyes closing, hands raised to sit under his chin in a steeple shape. The finding of Sebastian was a step forward in the case, but there was a slim chance that he has anything to do with Moriarty at all. Sebastian was quite a popular name nowadays. It intrigued the detective as to why names such as William, Henry and Edward were now seen as ‘outdated’. Names of kings of Great Britain. How could they not be suitable names? Naming your child after a king was a bold and powerful statement and to the detective it should stand that way today. William the Conqueror and Henry VIII were the most impacting kings of England in history. Names such as Jack, Callum and Tyler had no authority to the name. No real meaning. It was hard to understand why names had to change with the time.

Sebastian ringed a bell for the detective. It was as if the detective had heard the name previously in a different case or by another. The detective chose the latter considering he remembers each and every case he has had the pleasure to encounter and take forward. 

It was late. It didn’t matter to Sherlock what time he went to bed considering he gets up at midday. But Amelia was going to be here tomorrow and he needed to awake and alert. So with the hundreds of Sebastian’s currently stored on his laptop for another day, the detective headed to bed, with sleep in heart but Moriarty in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go and listen to Sweet Dreams, TN by The Last Shadow Puppets. Absolute banger of a song.  
> Anyway, hope you've enjoyed my fic so far. Things are getting more complex now. Next chapter soon. xo


	8. Haunted

8\. Haunted  
\- I know if I'm haunting you, you must be haunting me.

_There was no colour in the background. Just blends of black, grey and white, like it was made especially to be coloured. A colouring book but the only colour was pouring from the soul that stood against the dull and overcast setting. You can try and paint the smoke but it just slips from your grasp._

_James Moriarty was the smoke. Nowhere was safe. He could float to any part of your world, your mind. He wasn’t a ghost. He was alive. More alive than he had ever been. A mischievous smirk kissed his lips. White teeth glowing against the plump, red lips that seemed to be more refined and detailed. You could see the wetness on his lips, the indentations on his lips from the lines where they creased from when he pouted or smiled to his ears. His lips were the most beautiful. The most alluring of all._

_Nothing could match his frame. Sharper than a carpenters knife. Against the blend of gloom, his attire was lean, arms and legs with enough muscle to kick and punch you to the depths of the his type of hell. From the ground he was slim, not an inch of him was out of place. Everything was exactly the same as the day back on the rooftop, like he hadn’t even left this world. He was slim, sharp and striking._

_Westwood. Always Westwood. It clung to him like a child. It was made to measure. No fabric was hanging out of place. The collar of his shirt sat around the base of his neck, bringing out the clean cut of his neck. Dark blue suit brought out his physique against the boring background. A blood red silk tie hung tightly around his neck, pointing to the south like a compass with his head as the north. But his head was a little tilted to the left like he was admiring someone. A pristine white shirt sat underneath all that class and glam. He was loud and piercing. No blood was sliding from the back of his combed hair. No red stained his shirt. Death was escapable. He wasn’t a cat with nine lives, he was a wolf in disguise. Cunning and manipulative._

_The most haunting thing about him stood there before the detective was his eyes. Black. Blacker than the dark half of the blue. There was no end to those orbs. Black holes that sucked everything in, every inch of brick that made a building, every insignificant scratch upon your skin, absorbing every fibre of your soul. But even though yours was taken, it’s like you can sense his soul in the pits of his darkness. No end to his soul, layer after layer to unravel and once you’ve unravelled one, a new coating replaces it, a new part of him to discover but you can’t decipher the code he keeps. Maybe they aren’t black when you place him against the black behind him. They seem a dark brown. Chocolatey, thick and strangely warm. Flints of gold between the strands of the rich darkness making his smirk more playful and dangerous. His eyes defined him. Mysterious, soulful and daring._

_The detective was caught. James Moriarty moved close to him like he was playing with fire. Haunting and unforgettable danced along his jaw, refining his ghost like feel but he was so alive. The beat of his black heart got louder as he came out of the mist. Every step he took, every stride he made closer to Sherlock was heart-wrenching with flakes of butterflies, just like he was meeting him for the first time all over again. He was no ghost, dancing in the shadows to never be captured. He was a criminal, dancing in the moonlight waiting to attack._

_Sherlock’s body involuntary moved in reaction to James Moriarty’s steps closer. But even though he felt his muscles move, he didn’t shift an inch. Not to the left nor to the right or backwards. He was frozen to the spot. A mark of authority against the man but in all honesty, Sherlock was even more petrified than he had been when they first met._

_And then, he was crouched in front of the detective. He smelt of Calvin Klein cologne, roses and petrol. A dangerous combination. So hypnotic and alluring. His breath smelt of spearmint, with hints of coffee flowing into the little space between them. Hot breath spilt into the cold air when he gave a little chuckle. A chuckle darker than the pits in a cave. A chuckle sweeter than any grass cuttings in the deep heart of England. It was addictive, it was twistingly good. Eyes gazing over the detective, drinking him in, absorbing all the secret doors the detective had left open. His lips curved into the smirk again, teeth flashing making Sherlock’s heart flutter. James Moriarty was warm, blood thick and sizzling under his skin, eyes alive._

_The words flowed off of his tongue like a tongue twister. No way could those words be said from any other lips than his._

_“Did you miss me?”_

_“I-I…-“_

_“It was not a question to be analysed. A simple yes or no would have done. I wouldn’t pick the latter though… honey. I have so many riddles kissed to my lips," he paused, smirk still painted to his face, "Did you miss me?"_

_“Y-yes.”_

_The criminal smiled to the floor before meeting the detective’s once again._

_“You’ve been gone so long. You should never have left me here all alone. Only the insane can speak to the smoke in your lungs.”_

_“You speak to smoke?” Sherlock asked, eyes falling into his darkness._

_“Only when you let it fall from your grasp.”_

_“I let you fall from my grasp.” The detective quickly stated._

_“Mmmm, Sherlock, I wasn’t the one who fell…” Moriarty whispered, leaning closer to the detective, drinking him all in. From his breathing pattern to his firm lips._

_“Neither did I.”_

_“Your heart and eyes tell me otherwise.” Moriarty whispered, eyes meeting the detective’s in the most intimate way._

_Sherlock hesitated, eyes searching the black spheres of the criminals. There was no sign that Moriarty felt the same as him. Falling was easier than the detective thought possible. Especially to the devil._

_“I have missed you… James.” Sherlock quietly answered._

_As quick as a lion attacking its prey, Moriarty’s left hand was firmly around Sherlock’s throat. Pressing hard enough to close the airway slightly. One lock tighter and he could kill Sherlock. The detective was dancing with the devil. Jim’s eyes were wide, on the verge of mania. Unpredictable and enticing. His lips were so close but yet so far._

_“I am 8.727 millimetres away from killing you, Sherlock. That, close to ripping you away from reality and making you spend eternity here, with me. No John, no insignificant baby, no friends. We could go back to black. Is this daunting enough for you yet? Close enough for you yet?” he whispered dangerously, hot air lingering around their lips._

_“Daunting? No. Close enough? No.” Sherlock whispered, struggling to form a decent smile from the pressure against his throat._

_“I don’t kiss the foolish.” Moriarty teased, fingers still clasped tight to the detective’s throat._

_“No, but I’m not on parade yet.” Sherlock teased back, hands reaching to touch the criminal to see if he was real._

_“Ah ah ah,” Moriarty shuffled away a little, “prove to me you have missed me and then maybe I will let you search the riddles on my lips.”_

_“Promise?” Sherlock begged, his surroundings becoming blurred and disturbed._

_“Don’t be so ordinary.” Moriarty whispered. The only words Sherlock heard before the black took over._

\--

 

“Sherlock!” 

“No, don’t go no…“ Sherlock cut off, realising John was stood in front of him. 

Sherlock searched the room for Jim. There was no scent of coffee or spearmint or cologne. No sign of smoke or a break in. Sherlock was in the same position he had fell asleep in. Then, it hit him harder than one of John’s punches to the face. It was all a dream. All a fix. A dream he so wanted to become a reality. The strangest thing was that his admiration for the criminal had turned into an unbelievable want for him. James Moriarty was more powerful dead than alive.

“You ok?” John questioned.

“What? Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just a…” Sherlock paused. Was it a nightmare? Or a dream? Moriarty cast a nightmare wrapped in a daydream. It had left a craving for more and a shiver of fear. “Just a dream.”

“Oh right, well, its 1:20pm Sherlock and you’re not up so get ready. Amelia and Mary are here so look half presentable.” John uttered as Sherlock clambered out of bed.

“Fine. Fine. Now leave.” Sherlock waved as he stalked John out of the door.

“Alright, alright!” John surrendered as he was shut out of the detective’s room.

John found it unbelievable at how lazy Sherlock had become in the space of 6 months. He was lazy when they lived together but this was getting worse. Maybe the case was knocking it out of him a bit.

“Was he asleep?” Mary asked smiling, looking up to John as he walked back into living space, Amelia sound asleep in her baby carrier.

“Yes, he bloody was.” John said, placing himself down in his chair opposite his wife. 

“Aww don’t be so hard on him. You know this stuff to do with Moriarty is knocking it out of him. Even Mycroft said that.”

“I suppose so.” John agreed, fingers tracing patterns on Amelia’s left foot.

The silence in the room was sliced by the sound of a ringing phone. Both John and Mary looked towards the shelf above the fireplace were Sherlock’s phone was delicately placed. There was something eerie about the ring. Like it had a warning alarm under the ringing sound.

“Answer it for him John. It could be his brother.” Mary said kicking his leg slightly.

“Fine.” John said as he stood, “Hello?” John answered, a little irritated, “Oh hello, er alright, yeah…”

“Well?” Mary mouthed to her husband.

“Sherlock! It’s Inspector Lestrade.” He shouted to the door down the hall.

“You talk to him. I am currently busy.” Sherlock replied, shouting loud enough to wake the baby.

“He, um, is currently busy. Anything I can help with?” John asked. 

A silence settled into the room like a classroom becoming dead silent when a teacher steps through the door. But the silence was disturbed by John’s face changing into a gloomy, shocked expression. As if he had just been talking to a ghost.

“Right, what does he want? Doesn’t he know that we are very busy?” Sherlock snapped as he walked into the room before coming to a halt, eyes falling on John.

“Ok, thank you, we will be right there.” John ended the call, finally looking to both Mary and Sherlock.

“What is it, John?” Mary asked, worry stretched across her face.

“John?” Sherlock quietly uttered.

“It’s Adair. He has been found dead at Park Lane.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mind palace part will make much more sense later on... hopefully. Stick around guys, the dark has only begun. Next chapter soon. xo


	9. Vertigo

9\. Vertigo  
\- Strictly stick shift witchcraft.

The most extraordinary thing about the man flopped over the desk was that he was so peaceful. Death can either make your skin crawl and itch or it can make you feel severely melancholy. For the detective, it was the latter.

Mr Adair had been shot in the back of the head. It was a clean, precise and clear-cut shot. There was minimal blood and it would have killed him instantly. There was no sign of a struggle before he was shot. No bruises, scratches or cuts to the skin. A clean murder.

The detective circled the room, eyes on everything to the tartan rug on the Oakwood floor to the minor scratches on the glass cabinet where a half empty decanter sat. He examined the walls and cabinets in direct line with where Mr Adair would have been sat. His eyes studied the indentations in the walls. Little dimples where you could see the plaster underneath, paint scratched away. The vases and clay pots with tens of different types of flowers from blood red roses to Japanese lilies were in the exact same place they had been when the consulting detective and the army doctor had seen those 23 hours previously. No smashed vases, no soil was surrounding the vases or pots.

His desk was scattered with paper and envelopes from his personal correspondence to bank statements. Money was held within paper to the side of his desk. Pens sat between the layers of paper. A cold, stale and discoloured cup of coffee was still on his desk. The detective estimated it had been on his desk since about 5pm yesterday. A glass of half drank whiskey was still painlessly on his desk. There was something about all the items in the room that gave a sickening feeling to the detective. The whole crime scene implied it was an uninvited evil.

The consulting detective came to a deduction halt by the window. All the alive and piercing eyes in the room on his back. He took a deep breath, eyes fixed on his empire, “When the world is on your side, you keep it with you and you take every precaution to not go against it. The only delinquent is, the world comes in various forms and when it is in the form of a storm, you can’t stop the parade. Adair had the world on his side, until he went against the storm.”

The silence in the room was crackling with back ground noise and the colours in the room had patterns only mosaics hold in its beauty. The room was as cold as a storm and as loud as thunder. The whole crime scene smelt of tangy blood mixed with the sweet scent of the flowers. It was strange.

John shuffled a little towards Adair who was slumped over his desk, papers crumpled and creased from his dead weight. His eyes scanned the bullet wound, eyes squinting a little, “Well, it was a clear-cut shot. Not much blood. Perfect place to kill him instantly.” 

Lestrade turned to Anderson, arms folding in a protective manner, “How long has been dead?” 

“I’d say about 16 hours. What about if someo-“

“Anderson, if you speak another word, you will have officially succeeded in being the body for my next experiment.” Sherlock snapped.

Anderson got the hint and backed away steadily.

Lestrade gingerly carried on with the conversation, clearing his throat, “It is odd isn’t it? Why would someone want him dead? Friends and relatives are absolutely distraught.”

“What did the family say?” Sherlock enquired, eyes scanning the ground outside the building.

Greg collected the file from the officer stood outside, pages flickering, “They said… ‘He was an honourable and well liked man with the family, his friends and acquaintances.’ He was a family man, loved his kids, and loved spending time down the pub… holidays…” Lestrade paused, turning the page, “Popular within government here and in Australia… spent most hours in his office within the week dealing with correspondence… And that’s about it.”

“He was a popular guy then. The authorities, not to mention the man's family seem to be stunned by his death. Adair had not an enemy in the world.” John uttered, shaking his head like he was shaking off a thought.

An odd silence had settled in the room. Sherlock hadn’t removed his eyes from the ever developing city. 

John turned to the consulting detective, “Sherlock, what are we thinking? It is oddly spooky.”

Sherlock sighed before turning round to the three men, “This is no accident. This is unquestionably and unarguably murder. Adair may have not had enemies or rivals that his family and friends are certain he didn’t have but they don’t know and he,” the detective pointed to Adair, “certainly didn’t know that he may have had enemies because he kept himself to himself which is quite obvious as we know he was a family man, loved spending time with his kids and so on. But before we decipher who would have killed him, we need to work out, how he was killed as this can shed some light on who it could have been. So, John, the room. What is wrong?”

John shuffled on the spot a little, hands going behind his back, “Well, everything on his desk is still out so his death was unforeseen. Um… there is money on the table but it doesn’t seem to have been interfered with or moved in anyway so his murder isn’t associated with robbery. Um… The room looks… the same.”

“The same?” Lestrade questioned.

“We had an appointment with him yesterday regrading some building on Grove Street.” John answered, arms folding across his chest.

“Yes, John, the room is near enough exactly the same as yesterday. Yes, there are obvious changes such as the decanter now half empty, a cup of longstanding coffee and a glass of half drank whiskey is now on the desk, more papers, money, the cabinet is ajar only because that is where his safe is but, what is the most defining factor about the room?” Sherlock questioned, eyes secure on John. 

John paused, eyes searching the room, before he spotted the one thing about the room, “There is no sign of a break in.”

“Exactly,” the detective clarified, walking over to the large blue shiny vases that were placed on the floor, “The vases, they are exactly the same as yesterday. No soil, no petals or water surrounds the vases. Not even the ones downstairs or in the hallway suggesting that there was no sign of a struggle or a quick exit for our murderer. Plus, there are no scratches or bruises on Adair. He made no sign of defence. Nothing to show he had attacked his murderer to prevent himself getting killed. He was suddenly and unequivocally murdered.”

“But the doors were all locked. How could they even get in? Unless they were already in.” Lestrade questioned, arms still firmly crossed against his chest.

“The bullet wound. Where is it?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to Adair, lifeless. 

“Head.” Anderson butted in, stepping forward from the dark corner of the room like a shadow climbing on a building. 

“Anderson, SHUT UP!” The detective shouted before looking towards John once again, “John, where is it?”

John hesitated, already knowing where the fatal bullet wound was. He stared at Adair, eyes focusing on the hollow. Sherlock impatiently looked to the doctor to speed up the thought process. But before Sherlock could say anything, John answered, “The back of his head,” John paused, clearing his throat a little, “His murderer was behind him.”

Sherlock sighed, walking towards the window, “The person who shot him was behind him. Not directly behind him otherwise the fracture to the skull would be over a wide range. He was shot from a long range, with… I’m guessing with a soft-nosed revolver bullet. Also, the windows were open making it more useful for the attacker.”

John inhaled deeply, left arm pointing towards Adair, “But who would kill him?”

Sherlock sighed, “Someone with impeccable aim. Someone who knew what they were doing. Could be someone who shoots for a living. A countryman, an arm…” Sherlock paused, inhaling quietly, “Oh.”

“What? Sherlock, what is it?” John queried, a look of worry flashing over his face.

Reality had hit Sherlock in the temples. It was so simple. So precise. So obvious. The hardest part about it all was that it always came back to the same person. The same shadow. The same fear. This wasn’t coincidence that Adair was shot a day after John and himself had seen him. He was shot for exactly for that meeting. He was shot for going against the storm. A storm that was more like a tempest.

“Of course! Yes! Oh, sweet murder mystery!” Sherlock loudly said into the room, “Oh, John this is him. This is him. He knew everything. He knew exactly what Adair said to us yesterday. Oh, this is brilliant!”

“Sherlock, a man is dead. Try not to sound too happy about it. And who? Who is it?”

The consulting detective pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping away at the screen, “Sebastian, John! This is our man Sebastian. He knew Adair had leaked to us about him giving the keys to him. Sebastian had to silence Adair to not give out any more information but I’m afraid he has given out more information than intended.”

“This was Sebastian? The cocky guy?” John asked, eyes on the detective.

Sherlock smiled widely, placing his phone back into his trouser pocket, “Yes, it was. And you know what is the most magnificent thing about this murder is?”

John shook his head a little, Lestrade and Anderson doing the same. 

“I know who our Sebastian is.”

\--

 

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

Whispers. Little whispers against his temples just like he was blowing hot air. He was always there. Either sat by his temples tormenting him, sat in his memories or just teasing him to slip away for a while. 

He was haunting, daunting and flaunting his magnificence into the lungs of the detective. It was painful and torturous but oddly comforting to know he was always there. The detective even decided to not have a cigarette so then the devil couldn’t speak to the smoke in his lungs. What would he even say to the smoke? Oh, you are smoking?

 _Sherlock._

“Shut up.” The detective whispered, eyes closed, waiting for his phone to buzz.

He was a replacement. A replacement as the criminal was gone. And, even though he wasn’t real, he was just a figment of the detective’s imagination, he seemed so real. He was exactly the same. The same manipulative, flirty and cunning criminal as he was when he was alive. Same stirring smirk, slick hair, pools for eyes.

And even the thought of him, could pull you into your dream reel.

 

\--

 

_“I don’t like repeating myself, my dear. When I call, you should come.”_

_Earthy. That was all that sprung to mind when the detective regained some consciousness. The smell that you would gather when you walk through a wood. The smell that plants and flowers collect. His body felt cold, slightly damp too like your clothes would be if you were stood in the rain. And suddenly the smell of rain hit him but rain was not splashing on the detective. He concluded that he must be on the ground and as the detective opened his eyes, all his eyes were greeted with was short, rich green grass._

_The detective flopped himself on to his back, eyes looking up to a bright blue sky, no clouds in sight. It was strange for the sky to be so bright in his mind palace. Taking a deep breath, he sat up straight, stretching a little before his eyes fell on the criminal who was stood a few metres away from him, hands in pockets looking to the sky like he was admiring it._

_Sherlock hesitated a second, eyes on the criminal, “Did you miss me that badly that you had to nag me?”_

_The criminal smiled, eyes still on the blue ocean above him, “You can’t resist me. That’s why you came back.”_

_Sherlock paused, thoughts flowing through him. He could have easily ignored him but he couldn’t stop himself coming back to the criminal. There was something that pulled the detective back to the criminal. The detective looked away, “Then you can’t resist me either otherwise you wouldn’t have called.”_

_“The difference between me and you, Sherlock dear, is that I am irresistible and you’re meant to come when I call. Don’t forget that I am your virus. I can dismantle you, bit by bit.” Moriarty uttered, Irish voice broad, low and perilous, each word with a snap and a bite._

_“You don’t own me.” Sherlock snapped back._

_The criminal turned around sharply, eyes darker than usual, lips pressed together like he was trying to hold in venom. Moriarty slowly stepped closer to the detective before crouching near him. His body language dangerous, intimidating his nemesis._

_“Say that again.” He spat, voice lower than the depths of the ocean._

_The detective swallowed hard, heart beating hard against his ribcage. There was something about Moriarty like this which was mysterious but it was shrouded with fear. The detective didn’t answer. It was best that he didn’t._

_“Say that again and know that if you do, I will swarm across your body like venom. Eating every part of you until you are full of poison because that is what I am. Your poison. You thought I hadn’t burned the heart of you… Well, honey, I haven’t even got started.”_

_Sherlock stared at him. His words were like daggers in his mind. Trying to process what he said was like trying to process the world goes around the sun. He didn’t even have to think about it because he knew the criminal would burn him, would spread poison through his veins. There was no doubt that he would kill him from the inside out._

_The criminal smiled and to the detective’s astonishment, his smile was… endearing in its own wacky, sinister way. His smile formed like how a scar formed upon your skin; permanent and deep. Everything about the man in his face spoke words that only tin pots could hold. Cold, cool and caught in a tangy taste._

_Moriarty shuffled a little to sit next to the dazed detective, knees to his chest and arms circled around his knees and in that moment, with the criminal’s attention on the sky, he looked small and childlike. Sherlock locked himself on the man beside him. The criminal was crumbled palm tree leaves in a scorching heat and the blow of kisses in the cool breeze on a winter’s day. He was a bad habit._

_The criminal snapped his head at the detective only for the detective to snap his head to something else. A little smirk formed on Moriarty’s lips as he gazed up at the sky once more._

_Sherlock stuttered, the words lingering at his lips, “Why is the sky blue?”_

_Jim turned his head, sarcasm flowing from his core, “Why are you so ordinary?”_

_“We both know that’s not quite true.”_

_Moriarty’s eyes squinted piercingly at Sherlock. There was something about Sherlock that made his bones itch, “I know why you’re ordinary, it’s because you are stealing my lines. You are edging towards not borderline genius but borderline fuckwit.”_

_“Swearing is not necessary.” Sherlock flatly replied, eyes on the criminal._

_“When it comes to you, Sherlock, swearing is completely necessary.” Moriarty spat before his eyes latched back on to the sky which had become a little cloudy._

_A silence settled like a midnight heat. There was a heat from both of the men and it rose from their chests like steam from a pool. Both of their eyes were on the sky. Sherlock’s hands placed on each knee while sat cross legged on the floor whereas the criminal was still in the same position. He was unpredictable but everything you’ve come to expect._

_“How did you fake it?” Sherlock split the silence, eyes back on the criminal._

_The criminal turned to the detective, “Seriously? Are y.. Have you forgotten that I am not real? That I am dead? That I am a figment of your imagination?”_

_“Of course not. I just want to see how you would have done it if you were still alive.” Sherlock covered up, forgetting that the James beside him was a figment of his imagination._

_Moriarty looked at the detective before a large smirk graced his lips, “Oh,” he tittered, “You want me to be real. Is dead not sexy enough for you, darling?”_

_Sherlock grew quiet, eyes looking anywhere but the criminal, “Sexy is nothing to do with this.”_

_“Oh yes it is,” the criminal stood, “Don’t lie, Sherlock. I’ve spent over a year in this palace of yours, I know when you’re lying. There are more revelations in smoke and dust than you will ever know.”_

_The detective quickly stood, giving out a huff, “Give me some of your riddles.”_

_Moriarty turned a little, a small grin across his face. It had taken Sherlock four minutes and twenty three seconds to bring up the riddles. He looked back to the sky, “I don’t give them to the foolish.”_

_The criminal began to walk away slowly while the detective looked on in confusion before he could register that Jim was moving away from him. Sherlock stalked him before his hand gripped the bicep harshly of the criminal. The muscle their apparent, Sherlock’s fingers slightly searching for more of the muscle under his fingers._

_Moriarty snapped his head to the hand on his bicep, suit creased. His eyes then fell on the detectives, eyes darker than the heat that seeped in the midnight aligner._

_“You have everything of me. You control my mind, my body, my veins. My personal virus I so brilliantly built for myself. Give, me, your riddles.” Sherlock mouthed lowly, eyes on the dark pits within the criminal’s eyes._

_The criminal darkly smirked while his tongue danced along his lips and then he whispered some words full of patterns only a mosaic could hold, “Do your old knocking boots remember the steps?”_

_And in a flash, there was a trick in the light and the black was an ocean._


	10. Dangerous Animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys. Here is the long waited Chapter 10. xo

10\. Dangerous Animals  
\- You should have racing stripes the way you keep me in pursuit.

There was something about the silence within a room. A silence that could make you feel so alone but a room that could make you feel like you were surrounded by people. For Sherlock, it was far from pleasant. It was more like being surrounded by your drunk confessions and unwanted memoirs. 

Memories that were so sweet but so toxic. Memories that clung to the walls like damp. The silence hung in the air to settle the toxic thoughts that settled among the furniture. It pulled at the detective as he sat there in the hush of the walls of 221 Baker Street.

John was among the windows, the times when the detective would watch the doctor leave 221B in a storm after an argument had taken place. So many times they had had petty disputes over cases, people and… feelings. The window closest to the wall where the smiley was had a slightly more laughable memory. When John called Sherlock a dick when they were in the depths of The Reichenbach Fall case. A slight smile tugged at the detective’s lips at the memory, eyes shifting to the couch against the back wall. 

Several memories were pinned to the couch. John once again dominated the recollections of 221B. The time when John found out the papers had called him a “bachelor”. Also the time when the doctor and he were pissed out their minds on John’s stag do while Tessa rambled on about her “ghost boyfriend”. An odd looking photo was tagged to the couch. The time when Sherlock’s parents came to London to visit him just after the detective’s return from the dead. His odd, tireless but clever parents.

Sherlock turned his head to the left to look at the fireplace, a few more memories stapled to the mantelpiece. Charles Augustus Magnessun flooded the fireplace, an unwelcome vision of him urinating in the fire. It made the detective’s blood boil at the action Magnussen decided to make in his flat that day. Still to this day with Magnussen 6 foot under the Earth's crust, he still managed to infuriate the detective. But the anger within the detective quickly subsided and a warm, glowing feeling flooded through his veins against his will. Sherlock’s eyes shifted to the end of the left side of the mantelpiece, eyes visioning a red box with black ribbon around it, placed by Irene Adler. The thought of her placing that in his flat when he was not in made him shiver. She was craftier than he initially thought. 

Within the fabrics of the detective’s memories were feelings he has locked away for years. Feelings fluctuating from hurt to unwanted passion. Hurt from so many people from his family all the way to losing Redbeard. Unwanted passion from moments with Irene Adler to unarguable connections with John. Emotions didn’t sit well the detective, that’s why locking them away is completely necessary. 

Sherlock’s eyes then shifted to the right, landing on his chair. And even though it was the detective’s chair, memories of himself did not dominate it. Instead, there was another man. A man that smelt of coffee and petrol, faint scents of roses like he had sat in a rose field. A man that could dominate any chair he sat in from a sofa to a deck chair. Sherlock’s eyes locked on the man in his seat. Of all people who have sat in his comforter, it had to be James. He had to dominate all the memories the sociopath had. 

_“In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And honey, you should see me in a crown.”_

Words that could cut crimson steel into scissored arrows. Those words circled the chair like a tornado. Moriarty knew how to leave a scar on the detective. But in the strangest way, the detective closed his eyes at the memory of him.

“Oh, hello John!” 

“Hey, Mrs Hudson, how are you?”

The detective sharply opened his eyes at the voices that were downstairs. Sherlock was quite grateful that he was pulled out of his thoughts. He wandered to his chair and gently placed himself down. The smell of coffee and petrol lingering around him. He looked to the door just as John appeared.

John stopped, searching the flat before his eyes fell on his friend, “Hi.”

Sherlock heavily sighed, placing his hands on each side of his chair, the smell of the criminal overwhelming him, “Sebastian is not in London.”

John shook his head a little towards the detective, “How did you know I was gonna ask that?”

“Your mind is typical, so see-through.” Sherlock answered, rolling his shoulders.

“Watch it, Sherlock.” John lowly answered, hanging his coat on the coat stand.

Sherlock looked on at the doctor. It had only been 18 hours since they had discovered it was Sebastian. It was quite astounding at how John thought the detective had made progress already. 

John turned, placing his hands in his pockets, “So, what do we know?”

The detective turned his head to the doctor, not moving from his chair, “Sebastian, currently not in London, precise location is unknown however I am speculating he is in the north somewhere considering his father is some sort of authority for Persia and he is currently in Edinburgh.”

John walked to the desk, a file placed delicately upon it. Before he could even pick up the file, Sherlock was by his side, picking up the file and opening it, balancing it on one arm as he traced the text with his fingers with the other.

“Full name, Sebastian Augustus Moran, aged 38. His father heavily involved with Persia, mother died when he was of a young age. No siblings. Studied at Oxford University before embarking upon a military career. Served in Afghanistan before he was dishonourably discharged in 2008, what for is still a mystery. Since then he has not been registered on any housing, internet, national insurance or tax forms.”

John looked up to the sociopath, “What, so he just disappeared off the face of the Earth?”

“Hm by the looks of things. I thought I had heard of him,” Sherlock said before chucking the file to the desk and pacing the room, “His father, Sir Augustus Moran is a major authority for Persia.”

“Well, I’m glad we have found out who the mur… Wait a minute… You said he served in Afghanistan.” John uttered, looking to the detective who had stopped pacing to look at the doctor.

“Yes, and?”

“Has it slipped that cluttered brain of yours that I served in Afghanistan too? I might know him.” John replied, arms folding, a little proud of himself.

“No, John, no. You would certainly remember him if you had seen him let alone met him. He is the second most dangerous man in London aside Moriarty. This is a man you don’t want to cross wires with. He is a tiger of all sorts. Courageous, vicious, cunning, manipulative and fearless. He is the growl in the summer’s wind, hot and burning, even to look at. He is a dangerous animal. Keeps everyone in pursuit and he is always on the hunt.”

John swallowed hard. Ok so he didn’t know Sebastian Moran and by the sounds of it, he didn’t want to. Sherlock always had a way of making people sound scary. Just the explanation he gave about Magnessun over 6 months ago was terrifying but his explanation of Moran topped that by miles.

What about if he worked for Moriarty? The both of them together would be hell in a cardboard box. Moriarty, the most notorious criminal in the world. Extremely intelligent, mischievous, an unhealthy level of self-confidence, psychopathic, sadistic, narcissistic and intrepid. And Sebastian, a hungry, scheming, malicious, killing machine. They were a deadly duo. A match made in hell.

John pointed to Sherlock, “Hang on a minute Sherlock, I might know how he works. What training he has had, how well he works under pressure.”

“No, no, no that makes no difference here, John. He is a much cleaner, precise and professional shot than you. He has been trained not only in the army but also outside of it too. You was an army doctor. Completely different,” the detective paused, “I have the whole of my homeless network on to him. I have over a few dozen covering stations and airports. I have Grove Street under surveillance and the only thing we have picked up so far is that the builders have abandoned the build.”

“Ok, so, what do we do now?” John asked, arms folding against his chest.

“Wait.”

“Wait? What do you mean 'wait'?”

“I mean… wait.”

“Sherlock, there is a murderer strolling free across Britain and you suggested we wait?” John huffed, eyes narrowing.

“If we go looking for him then he will pick up that we want him. We need to wait for his next move. If he killed Adair to stop him from leaking information to us about Grove Street then think what he will do to us if he discovers that he is wanted for murder. He will kill anyone to prevent himself going to jail. He is keeping secrets and we need to know them, especially when it comes to Moriarty.”

“Well, what are you gonna do? You’re the most impatient bloke I have ever met. There is no way that you will wait for him.” John laughed.

“I have a few more cases just come through the inbox. It will keep me occupied and it will make it look like we have given up on the Adair murder.” Sherlock answered, walking towards the coffee table.

John followed, before coming to a halt next to the detective, “Okay, so what is the next case?”

Sherlock looked to John before his eyes fell back on the wall, a smile forming on his lips.


	11. Pretty Visitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for staying with me this long xo

11\. Pretty Visitors  
\- And the bicycle wheels all struggle to move round in your muddy mind.

There was an overwhelming smell of bleach, polish and unsettled dust in 221B. The smell made the insides of Sherlock’s nostrils itch. To Sherlock, there was no point in cleaning the flat before visitors arrived. They are not here to check their surroundings, they are here for the detective’s and doctor’s services. 

The detective’s eyes shifted to the clock. 10:13am, precisely 17 minutes until Alexander Holder will burst through the door. A smile formed on Sherlock’s face because to the detective’s amusement, John doesn’t even know this will happen yet.

John was happily reading the newspaper that Mrs Hudson had bought up earlier this morning. Now and then little sounds of disagreement or disbelief left the doctor’s mouth and to the detective, it was comforting to have them sounds in the flat again. It was comforting to have John at the flat much more often than usual. Since he moved out Sherlock has been drowning in his thoughts and captured by Moriarty in his mind palace. And since the last time he had visited James in his mind palace, he has been whispering to Sherlock words that only a glass floor can hide. 

_“Wrote all the notes to that old boots song on the back a raindrop,  
Used all those vinyl’s to make a synopsis for the taste of a lollipop.”_

Sherlock had desperately tried to ignore the calls and the riddles he had blown against his eyes and hissed against his heart. Sherlock had even tried to lock him at the back of his ribcage but with James being so warm and gentle against his lungs, he soon lets him go, not because of how he makes the detective feel but for his own personal safety. 

And just as Moriarty was about to whisper to Sherlock to come to him, the front door slammed shut. Both men snapped their heads to each other before their eyes fell to the door and within a matter of seconds, Mycroft appeared around the door, a little breathless, eyes narrowed and locked on his younger brother. 

Both Sherlock and John looked at each other once more before they both burst into laughter. Mycroft rolled his eyes, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast. 

“Oh, grow up the pair of you!” Mycroft shouted to both of the men who were sat down.

“What’s wrong, brother dear? Do the stairs now look like a mountain?” Sherlock laughed, only for John to laugh a little louder than previously. 

“Stop, now, Sherlock.” He replied, voice low.

The detective looked up to his older brother, laughter now wiped from his face. He stood, face flat and serious, “What do you want?”

Mycroft’s eyes never left the detective’s, “Sebastian Moran.”

Sherlock blinked before he furrowed his brows. It was only then did John look away. The detective turned to his friend, “YOU TOLD HIM?”

John opened his mouth to defend himself but was stopped in his tracks by Mycroft shouting above his explanation. 

“OF COURSE HE BLOODY DID.” Mycroft shouted back, pulling his brother back roughly in front of him like he was a child.

“Let go of me Mycroft otherwise I will see if EasyJet have changed the laws of gravity.” Sherlock lowly responded, eyes dark on his brother.

The older brother let go, eyes never leaving Sherlock, “We need to find him. He has killed a crucial governor and he may be involved with Moriarty.”

“Oh, right, so you want to bust us all up do you? Moran is the most dangerous man to walk the planet right now. He is a trained sniper, a killer. Any attempt to capture him will result in yours, John’s and my death.” Sherlock replied, pointing at his brother. 

“He is a danger to the security of Great Britain.” Mycroft quickly responded.

“You’re a danger to the security of Great Britain but we still let you walk free.” Sherlock bitterly reacted, walking away from his brother to look at the clock.

10:23am. 7 minutes until Alexander Holder arrives. Sherlock rotated towards the two men, his brother still rambling on. Mycroft always bursts into 221B at the wrong times. Just like he always leaves at the wrong times. But this time, he needed to leave at the right time which was now. 

“I’m not playing no more, Sherlock. This has gone on long enough. I saved you from getting exiled, I could easily turn back the clock.” Mycroft threatened, his eyes never leaving the detective. 

John stepped forward, protecting his friend. Mycroft’s words were bullying. It was a shock to hear words like that from a respected man of Parliament. Or so he says.

Sherlock stared back Mycroft, eyes as menacing as Moriarty’s, “You wouldn’t dare.”

The words that were spat from the detective’s tongue were venomous. They rolled off his tongue so smoothly that it hurt his vocals. Each syllable spat with precision and bitterness. And without a warning, a gush of hot air blew against his heart like someone blowing a kiss and then a voice whispered against his lungs.

_“Mmmm, Sherlock, even angels can curse the good.”_

What? What was Moriarty doing? What does that even mean? Sherlock paused a minute trying to dissect the riddles within the words that the criminal burned into his lungs making the detective lose his breath a second. Did Moriarty like how dark Sherlock just spoke? Was he trying to distract him? If he was, then he was succeeding.

Sherlock knocked himself back to reality only to be greeted with Mycroft in front of him with John by his side, eyes on Mycroft.

“You disappoint me, Sherlock.” Mycroft bitterly replied shaking his head a little at the detective.

Sherlock blinked, taken aback by his brother’s words. Then suddenly, without permission, memories of himself as a child filled him, his brother teasing him, torturing him with words that killed his confidence as a child. The room around the detective felt so big while he felt so small. The detective fell silent, eyes staring into nothing in particular. 

And as Mycroft swiftly departed 221B, a warm but painful heat fell over the detective from the man he didn’t think would be capable of doing so. Moriarty was comforting Sherlock from the words that his brother just spoke. With no warning, Moriarty whispered among the detective’s bones;

_“Do not listen to that vicious pig, Holmes. He doesn’t know beauty when he sees it.”_

Sherlock nearly collapsed at the words that Moriarty had let slip from his mouth. There was nothing the sociopath could do or say. Shock rattled through his body and it took John several attempts to knock the detective from the state Moriarty had pushed him into. Did Moriarty truly mean the words he just spilt or did he just speak them to distract him? Sherlock concluded that it must be the latter.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?” John softly said as he shook his arm.

A few seconds later he answered, “Yes… Um… Yes. Well, yes.”

John furrowed his eyebrows, “Yes? Yes what?

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” The detective replied as he walked towards the clock. He took one glance; 10:28am which was perfectly timed. He turned around facing the doctor once more, straightening his clothing slightly. Well, he had to look the part.

“Are you ok? His words were pretty… harsh.” John softly asked, concerned it may affect his friend.

The detective stared at his friend a second, “Oh, yes I am,” he cleared his throat, “Fine.”

John shuffled a little closer to the detective, clearing his throat, “Don’t take no notice of Mycroft. He doesn’t know what he is on about.”

The sociopath stared at the doctor, quite taken back at the words just like he was a few moments ago. Amongst those words that felt so warm to the detective was a flash of comfort. John is a doctor and a father, he has to be comforting and caring but it was odd for him to say it to the sociopath. Sherlock couldn’t form any words to reply back to John so as a blocker, he just stared instead.

John looked back at the detective, puzzled at what it was that he said that made Sherlock stare into oblivion. To defuse the situation that John had just dug up, he began walking to the kitchen, the click of the kettle snapping Sherlock out his stare.

“I will make us a brew.” John shouted into the space between himself and the detective.

“I don’t think…” Sherlock paused while the doorbell rang, “Now is the right time.”

Sherlock paced the room, preparing himself for the ordinary mind that will be gracing the room any second now. It would be so much more helpful and simpler if people’s mind was a little more complex than placid.

And within a matter of seconds, Alexander Holder walked through the living room door, scraping his coat against the door because of his nervousness causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

At the sound of the scrapping, John stepped back in the room, “Who’s this?” John asked, nodding his head to the man before him.

“I…” he cleared his throat, “… am Alexander Holder. I am here to see a Mr Holmes.”

His voice was soft, soft like the petals on a raindrop covered rose. He was slim, but fairly well built and he was as tall as the detective. Wearing a tailored suit, he seemed to be dressed to impress but his job has an effect on his way of dressing. He is a fairly confident man but the circumstances that have happened in the last few days have altered this. His hair is a dark brown with green but slightly greyish eyes. He has no stress issues the detective deducted. No money or marriage problems. He seems like a level-headed person.

The detective stepped forward, “Yes, that is me and do take a seat. You look like the spare one at a wedding.”

“Sherlock…” John replied lowly, a warning that his words were a little too far.

Alexander chuckled slightly in shock at the words from the detective, taking a seat in John’s chair, making himself comfortable. The detective swiftly followed him, eyeing him constantly while John placed himself beside of Sherlock on a wooden chair. The case was about to begin and amongst the silence in the room, the detective’s heart skipped a beat at the excitement of it all.

“Take us from the beginning. Don’t, be boring.”


	12. The Jeweller's Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update lads. Been suffering with iritis which blurs my vision so I haven't been able to write. Quite a short chapter as well but hopefully it is worth the wait. Thank you so much for your patience xo

12\. The Jeweller’s Hands  
\- If you've a lesson to teach me I'm listening, ready to learn. There's no one here to police me, I'm sinking in until the return.

The man cleared his throat once again, “I fear my family are disloyal and thieving from me.”

So he did have family problems, but he certainly doesn’t have money issues. He has a Gucci watch and shoes, a tie hand-made from an independent maker and a suit that seemed to be… Westwood, much to the detective’s surprise. 

“What makes you say that?” John asked, pen and notepad out straight away.

“Something happened at about… 4am last night that involved his son and… niece it seems.” Sherlock interrupted, smiling sarcastically at the man who was vacantly staring at him.

Alexander huffed, shaking his head a little, “How on Earth did you know that? You even got the right time!”

“It’s obvious. Now do carry on.” The detective responded.

“That’s absurd! It can’t be obvious you’ve only just met me!” He replied, voice raised a little, left hand pointing to the detective.

“Just, seriously, forget how he does it.” John answered trying to calm the man.

Holder fell silent for a few seconds, “I am Alexander Holder of Streatham which is located-“

“-Lambeth, South London,” Sherlock finished.

The man once again stared at the detective, “Yes… Well, I am a respected man of the Lambeth borough, this cannot be repeated outside of these four walls. You see, I’m a banker-“

Sherlock sighed, “Knew it.”

“Yesterday I had… a gentleman who asked for my assistance at my bank. He… wanted a loan.” Alexander finished, looking at both men.

“What’s so strange about that?” Sherlock laughed, rolling his shoulders, boredom settling in his bones.

“Normally people get given the money and walk out but this man decided to give me something to replace the money until he can pay it back. I mean, he is a rich man, financially stable, I don’t see why he needed the money. But he wanted the money so I granted it him but his request was that he gave me something as payment.” Alexander quietly responded.

John paused, “That’s… Like what banks did in the Victorian age isn’t it? A contract of some sorts, isn’t it?” 

“Yes...” Sherlock paused, “Who was he?”

“I can’t say… confidentiality laws I’m afraid.” Alexander answered.

Sherlock huffed, disappointed in the answer. If he couldn’t tell him every detail then what was the point of him even being here?

“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but I can’t discuss his private information.”

“Fine,” the detective spat, “carry on.”

Holder cleared his throat once again, “Well, last night, the possession he gave me has been damaged and parts stolen.”

The doctor leaned forward, “What was the possession, if you’re allowed to tell us?”

Holder looked to the floor first, pondering on the detective’s reaction, “The possession is… a Beryl Coronet.”

Sherlock swiftly leaned forward, John jumping a little at the fluidness and quickness of his friend.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked, eyes never leaving Holder.

“Yes.” He shortly replied, eyes telling the truth.

John leaned forward, glancing at the detective, “A Beryl, what? What’s that, Sherlock?”

“A Beryl Coronet, THE Beryl Coronet, John. The most valuable possession in London 150 years ago.”

“Right… what?” John glanced back at the detective, even more puzzled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before turning to the doctor, “A piece of jewellery, John. It is full of diamonds, made of gold and silver. It’s a crown or tiara some may say. There is only one left in existence and it has been missing for over a hundred years… until now.”

Alexander nodded, “Yes, and it is currently sitting in my private safe in my dressing room until last night.”

“Why? Why was it removed from your safe?” John asked.

Holder looked to the floor, eyes closing for a brief second, “I found it in the hands of my son last night. And my niece Mary came to see what the fuss was about and she fainted at the sight of what was happening.”

“It was in the hands of your son?! Why?” John questioned, quite shocked it was his son thieving from him and not a burglar. 

“I do not know. I did not question him about it. I know this is not his doing.”

The room fell silent. The case was starting to twist in the veins of the detective. A theft, damaged property, over 2 suspects and an item that was the most alluring thing about the whole thing. His son is the main suspect at this precise moment but this is too good to be true. The last Beryl Coronet in existence in the hands of a banker. Who would hand over such an item as a deal? An item of such elegance, such significance and such beauty?

Sherlock stood, his fingers clasping the button of his suit jacket and pinning it together, “Thank you for coming with such a case. John and I shall arrive in Streatham tomorrow to examine evidence and to question your staff and suspects involved.”

Holder stood, straightening his suit, preventing creases, “That’s it? I thought you’d come today? This has to be resolved quickly, Mr Holmes. If word gets around about this, my reputation will be tarnished and more importantly, I will lose everything.”

“I am well aware of that, however John and I have other matters to deal with at this time. We shall arrive at your establishment at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning.” Sherlock lowly responded, John looking on at the exchange between the two men.

Holder sighed, making his way to the door, “Fine, Mr Holmes. But, please, solve this for me?” he begged, eyes never leaving the man’s in front of him.

Sherlock beamed at the man, back fully straight, puffing his chest out like he had never lost a war, “You can count on me.”

And without another word, Sherlock shut the living room door in the face of Holder, turning to face John whose jaw was hanging open at Sherlock’s previous action. The detective paced the room, John only being able to follow him from a distance.

“Sherlock, this is serious. Someone has stolen three beryls and the only two suspects are his family, his own family! If this gets out he is ruined.” John whispered, his hands tapping on the table.

Sherlock stopped and turned to the doctor, “Do you know what the most fascinating thing Holder said?”

John thought about it a minute, his mind ticking away at what Sherlock finds most interesting, “I… um… no.”

“He did not speak a bad word about his son. Or his niece for that matter. He found the coronet in the hands of his son, his own flesh and blood. You would have thought he would have said some sort of negative points about his son or past happenings that made him think his son is capable of this. But he didn’t, he dismissed it, implying he definitely does not think his son could do it, or, he is covering for him.” Sherlock explained, once again pacing.

Family feuds and past happenings are the reasons for family rifts, uncertainty and mistrust. Every family has it. It differs from a child lying about where have been to husbands and wives falling out over the pettiest of things which neither can forget about. That is family. A bond, an army of different strengths and capabilities. It is home, it is… love. 

For Sherlock, family wasn’t something he felt comfortable with or at home with. And love was a different level for the Holmes family. His parents showed it the most but past happenings had caused both brothers to not show it. The detective’s family wasn’t family, it was a holding for lost souls.

Luckily, he found love and family with people he never would show it to him. Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mary, and Gary Lestrade and… John. They were family. They were home.

“What about the niece Mary? She fainted at the sight of the son and the father? Bit odd isn’t it?” John questioned.

Sherlock sighed, “Maybe it was because she saw the Beryl Coronet. Maybe it was because she couldn’t believe what was happening. We will have to question her.”

The detective paused a second, the presence of Moriarty behind his lungs still causing him to catch his breath. Sherlock needed to occupy himself and this case was the perfect distraction, the perfect get away from the consulting criminal.

A Beryl Coronet, the most exquisite and valuable item to grace the streets of London and now it was damaged. Three Beryl’s missing and two main suspects. However, a banker of that much affluence and supremacy would definitely not be doing the housework. So staff within his household is likely. Plus, this could be more than just a damaging of a product. This could be a robbery that went drastically wrong. The whole case was so baffling but so mind powering to the detective. 

Sherlock needed information. Background information on Holder, his family, his staff his household. The basics was the most boring part but it needed to be done. The detective turned his head slightly at John who was reading the notes he had just taken. And in that moment, Sherlock felt a warm wave flood over him. It was comforting to have John back now and then. The good old days were the best days, even if it involved Moriarty. 

John strolled to the open window, watching Holder enter his car before departing from Baker Street. A banker, a wealthy man came to the detective to solve his mystery. Wouldn’t it be easier just to go straight to Scotland Yard? The feeling didn’t sit right with the army man. There is something that both men were missing. 

John turned back to the detective but to his astonishment and annoyance, the detective was nowhere in sight. Sherlock’s coat was not hanging on the coat stand and there was no sign of his phone. Once again, the detective had departed the room to begin his own little mission. And on that note, the doctor departed 221B too and headed back to Mary and his child who was dreaming impossible but wonderful dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone of you who reads my wacky fan-fiction. It means the world to me, honestly, you have absolutely no idea. xo


	13. Willing & Able

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologise for the wait of this fairly short chapter. I do hope it was worth the wait. xo

13\. Willing & Able  
\- Cards on the table.

Streatham, a district in south London, mostly in the London Borough of Lambeth. It is situated 5 miles south of Charing Cross, also known as Trafalgar Square. The area is identified in the London plan as one of 35 major centres in Greater London. Population is estimated to be around 58,000. 

Streatham in the 18th century was known as Streatham Village. Within the industrial revolution in the 19th Century, the village did not change dramatically with Georgian buildings and housing standing still in time while the rest of London developed around it. It was only until the late 1980s that Streatham started to urbanize and develop to modern surroundings just like its neighbours Brixton and Wimbledon. 

To the consulting detective, Streatham was a village locked in a time loop. It saddened the detective to see such a historic and beautiful place of London to be forced into urbanising to keep up with the ‘trends’. Streatham was filled with parks, commons and wells which the detective would often escape to. And as the detective walked down Streatham High Street, an overwhelming feeling of pessimism shrouded him. A place the detective found so picturesque had been surpassed by the greed of an evil that needed to keep the money flowing in, instead of just letting Streatham live and breathe to its own rhythm.

The detective came to a halt outside a church just beside Streatham Green and placed himself gently on a bench which seemed to have been renewed. But to the detective’s disappointment, graffiti had already discovered its way on to the innocence of the bench. Sherlock squinted at the graffiti on the bench where two sets of initials was scratched into the wood:

_GB <3 MH_

Sherlock sighed at the sight. Lovers. New lovers. Two people who had fell madly in love with each other felt the need to carve their initials into the bench to mark their love and their forever to one another. Forever was a funny word to the detective. Why did lovers have to promise one another forever? I mean, even though the detective had no knowledge of space at all, was it something to do with the planet Venus? After all, she was the Goddess of Love.

And within the fibres of the detective’s lungs, he felt a rush of hot air swim past just like the man he had tried to hide away was chuckling to himself. James Moriarty was laughing at the detective? Why? What was so funny about initials on a bench?

Sherlock shivered involuntary at the man behind his lungs. Of all places he had to play with, the consulting criminal picked his lungs. To steal his breath away, to make him gasp, to make the detective feel hot and bothered. The warm feeling clung to the detective like a child and Moriarty hugged the detective like a fever, a fever which left him in a daze.

Suddenly, someone sat on the bench next to Sherlock and to his relief, it was John who was a little out of a breath and a little flustered himself. The detective said nothing for a few minutes, letting his best friend calm and catch up with the rest of the world. 

Staring ahead into Streatham Green, the detective spoke calmly into the open space with a smirk on his face, “You’re late.”

John huffed, head slightly turned to Sherlock, “You would be too if you had to walk from Streatham Hill Station.”

The detective snapped his head to the smaller man, brows furrowed, “You got the tube? Why didn’t you just get a cab?”

“Because I didn’t think I would have to walk very far from the tube station but no, Sherlock Holmes chose to meet in the heart of Streatham.” John replied, eyes on the detective.

“You’ve become extremely unfit.” Sherlock bluntly replied, eyes on the lush, cut green grass in front of him. There was something tranquil about the colour green. Something about it made the detective quite lax.

“Yeah, well you would be the same if you had a five month year old daughter to look after, Sherlock.” John lowly replied, curtly pulling his jacket down, and brushing his jeans free of strands of fabric.

Sherlock didn’t reply, mind wandering to different things. Both men had many tasks to complete about the Beryl Coronet case. Interviewing, observing the supposed crime scene, overlooking the Coronet itself. It was only 9am though. Still not enough time really, the detective thought.

“So, what is our first steps? What is the plan?" John bombarded the detective. 

“First step is to examine the Coronet, then to interview the staff on duty, the son and cousin. We shall search the house, check surroundings. This can shed some light on how it was within the hands of the son. Holder is a very cautious man, he will do everything in his power to crush whoever did this,” the detective paused, inhaling deeply, “The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet.”

John nodded agreeing with Sherlock. He furrowed his eyebrows, his curiosity overwhelming him, “Do you think it was the son?”

“It is too obvious, too ordinary for his son to have done it. Then again, we can’t just rule him out as a suspect as the Coronet was in his hands. If the son had done it, then why did he decide to do it in the middle of the night? Where people could witness him do it? His own father was still in the building. He is too clever to do something so careless and as stupid as this.” Sherlock explained, his fingers tapping against his knees.

“What do you mean, ‘too clever’?” John questioned, eyes narrowed. 

“I did some background checks on the family. He goes to one of the top schools in Streatham and according to his records he has straight A’s in every subject. School reports are exceptionally good, teachers are literally implying he is one of the best students in years.” Sherlock paused to stand, pulling his coat down smoothly, “So, if he is as clever as his records imply then he would not do something so reckless. A man with common sense is a man with hesitance and patience.”

John stood, looking up to the detective, “What about the cousin Mary? Fainting at the sight of a crown? I mean, it is one hell of an item but it’s a bit dramatic.”

Sherlock began walking back through the park at a steady pace, John steadily catching up, “I didn’t find much on Mary. I am not sure of her surname. She isn’t a Holder by the looks of things. She has been registered to live at the Holder residence for over three years so she must be either living there permanently or on a very long holiday.” 

“Where does he live? Close I hope.” John chuckled, walking beside the detective, his army posture apparent. Puffing his chest out like he had never lost a war.

Sherlock smiled to John before looking back ahead, “He lives within the time loop of London, the forgotten wells.”


	14. Low (Part 1)

14\. Low (Part 1)  
\- You see the world in black and white, no colour or light.

When you think of a banker, you think he will have an elegant three tier house in the centre of London. But, Alexander Holder was much more than a banker, he was a walking cash machine and the colossal 12 bedroom mansion standing dominantly in front of both men caused the jaw of the doctor to slack open. It was horrifically wonderful.

The doctor questioned whether Holder was a private banker who only took millionaires as his clients or he actually owned a bank. The doctor settled on the latter, the place was a palace. 

John exhaled in astonishment, looking through the bars of the black, powering gates, “Blimey, when he said he was a banker I thought he just worked in Lloyds TSB, not actually the owner.”

Sherlock replied with a hum of agreement, mind on other things. The doctor and he wasn’t even in the property or its grounds yet and there was significant evidence. Cases like these were exhilarating. It rattled through the detective’s bones like it was his own personal drug. And then, the detective latched on to the previous thought.

A consulting detective. He chose the title, the only thing in the world which settled his boredom, to keep him away from the drugs and the deadly nights before the dark. The problem was that the detective was latched on to detective work like he needed it to function, like it was the only thing in existence which could make his blood flow in the same direction as the rest of the world. And Moriarty, well, he was his other fix, a fix he made for himself considering the real Moriarty was six foot under. 

Sherlock was an addict. An addict to this type of lifestyle, his work, Moriarty even though he was not even alive. Was this worse than actual drugs? No, no. Only if you let the storm win, a storm which Sherlock was flowing with rather than going against. 

Among his broken line of thought, he latched back on to the case at hand, focusing on the sensors on the side of the gate. Black, three flashing lights, smaller than a box of cigarettes. Sensors to make them open or sensors to see how many people come in out of the property? The first seemed to be more likely. However it seemed to be only vehicle sensors. 

The detective’s eyes wandered above the sensors and along the brick wall that held the gate in place with iron hinges. Security conscious, secure living. Either Holder didn’t trust people or he really did run a bank from his house. Just to the left of the hinges sat a CCTV Camera pointing towards the main road and left side of the path. The detective swung his head to the other side of the gate and another camera sat in the exact same position as the first, just observing the opposite direction. So, Holder was very security conscious and he has every right to be considering the size of his property. 

John raised his arm slightly to check the time on his watch which sat on his left wrist. A little tut left his lips before placing his hands behind his back again, observing the palace like building in front of him.

“We have been waiting ten minutes now, Sherlock,” John stated eyes still on the property, looking for life. But all John received from the detective was silence while he observed the drive past the gate. 

John looked away for a second in disbelief before calling to the detective again, “Sherlock?”

Interesting, not a tarmacked drive. A pleasant pastel coloured stone drive placed upon a soft soil. So, underneath was earth. Obviously Holder is a lover of nature considering the sight of his large front garden through the gates, so he wanted to keep the nature vibe when he built the drive. The tracks on the drive gave so much away even though it hadn’t been raining. Sherlock smiled to the floor, feeling a little smug.

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock!”

“What is it now?!” Sherlock exclaimed out loud to the floor more than to John.

“Do I exist when a good case comes along? Because I feel as if I become more irrelevant than the fact the Earth goes around the sun!” John loudly whispered back to the detective, his focus still on the drive way.

Sherlock stood, huffing a little at the doctor’s last comment, “For God sake John I was in the middle of a deduction!”

John laughed once, in annoyance more than humour, “Sherlock Holmes, the one deduction I am making right now is that you are being a total arsehole!”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and shock in all honesty from his best friend’s outburst. The amount of times Sherlock has ignored him and he chose this time to crack? Sherlock, looked to the floor a little, the feeling of guilt overwhelming him slightly.

“John, I um… I’m sorry.” Sherlock stuttered.

John turned a little towards the detective, his jaw slightly open in awe. Sherlock Holmes just apologised? Was he feeling ok? John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry but in this case, he laughed.

Sherlock looked on at the doctor as he hysterically laughed, a deep laugh that came from the gut. He furrowed his eye brows once again, his brain not entirely sure how to process this or react.

“W-what are you laughing at? John? What? John?” Sherlock panicked while the doctor kept laughing.

“You… You apologised!” John laughed.

“Yes.”

“You never apologise.”

“I just did.”

“Yes… but… you never usually do. It was amusing and… sweet.” John finished laughing, straightening his coat a little.

“An apology is a regretful acknowledgement of an offence or failure. The word apology is seen as an easy way of regaining trust, ending a bitter feud or in most cases to cover up any clueless or stupid mistakes by the common idiot. The word ‘sorry’ I find is an overused word,” the detective paused, “we take it for granted and use it in every day context where we should use it as last resort in gaining back the advantage. I observe the word ‘sorry’ which is used to state an apology as a very common word, a word which has no real meaning or commitment. For example, if we break a glass we immediately say sorry to ease the tension however, the word doesn’t fix that broken glass or magically make things better. It is a cheap word, a word the world sees as a comfort blanket.”

John turned back to facing the gates, a sigh leaving his mouth, “And there is the Sherlock Holmes I know and love.”

Before the consulting detective could carry on his analysis the gates began to open. It was a grand entrance, freshly clipped grass and flowers coated the grounds, an entrance fit for a queen. A circular fountain with a cupid sat in the centre of the driveway like a little roundabout for incoming cars but no cars could be seen on the driveway. The detective furrowed his brow, unsure why no cars was situated in the grounds. Then again, they must have a garage considering the size of the house. The drive way circled to the front of the house from the right side of the gardens. Flowers, shrubs and plants planted among borders and beds, well-kept and perfectly aligned. This isn’t down to the hands of the banker. Weeping Willows sat to the far left of the front garden, a small pond with water lilies and a tree swing right next to the pond. A half-moon bench sat between 3 semi-circle beds. It was a beautiful garden, a secret treasure of Lambeth.

The detective and the doctor approached the house slowly, passing the ever trickling fountain to the left. The house was made of 17th Century stone, Common Ivy also known as Hedera Helix draped itself against the stone, flowing all the way down to the large downstairs windows. Not double glazed, very noisy, must be cold in the winter. It was a beautifully built place, it impressed both men but, among the class and the glam, it was a little repulsive.

Before both men could knock on the door a young gentleman opened the door. In his early twenties, brunette, fairly short, dressed in a smart made to fit suit. Shoe size is a seven, green eyes, fairly slim and disturbingly too smiley. 

“Good morning gentleman. Sorry for the delay, we have been extremely busy this morning.” The young boy apologised, still smiling away.  
Sherlock observed the young man. He was the butler by the looks of things. He definitely was not Holder’s son, Arthur. His voice wasn’t as well-spoken as Holder. It was soothing however, quite soft.

“Busy with what exactly?” The detective asked, his fingers delicately tracing a broken piece of stone from the front porch. It was rough, jagged. It was new damage. If it was an old damaged piece of stone, the water from the rain would have smoothed the stone, eroded away the roughness or even Holder would have had it repaired. Reputation and impression meant a great deal to the banker.

The young gentleman huffed once, smiling still, focused on the floor more than the two gentleman in front of him, “Ah… that is something I can’t divulge with visitors.”

Sherlock observed the young gentleman at the door. Very forward, very blunt. It really wasn’t a suitable way to talk to visitors but the detective couldn’t really comment on that.

“Where is Alexander Holder?” John enquired.

“He is inside. Please, follow me gentleman, he has been expecting you.” The butler politely answered, gesturing for both men to follow him.

Cautiously the consulting detective and the army doctor followed, John taking the lead. And upon stepping inside, the inside of the mansion was more impressive than the exterior.

The smell of varnished wood was overpowering. It reminded Sherlock of walking down university hallways on a cold winter’s night. It wasn’t a comforting smell to the detective, but it made the home warm, sincere and strangely tranquil. The smell of the old but delicate wood made it seem like a forest filled with fresh, damp and living trees. The silence, the quaintness of a forest, a wood. The only sounds emanating from birds, the rustling of leaves and the crunch under foot. These wooden doors, floors, stairway and furniture is what remained of the village of Streatham, the garden of wells.

The thought saddened the detective, the feeling in the pit of his stomach at the astonishment of the overwhelming amount of dead wood in just the large, open hallway. It stuck with Sherlock, the smell settling into the fabrics of his clothes like smoke. It was rather nauseating. 

Among the forest of wood was hand painted pictures but all of different destinations round the globe. The Lake District, Bagan in Myanmar, Li River in China, Moraine Lake in Canada, Iguazu Falls in Brazil and the Giza Pyramids in Egypt. Each so beautifully painted but each with no connection at all. A house in the heart of London had the wonders of the Earth upon its walls. It didn’t blend in with the wood that sat within every centimetre of the hallway but it sparked up the home, a flash of hope.

Dark red armchairs were placed left of the front door along with a coat stand with 3 coats; two coats for men and one women’s, along with 5 different sized umbrella’s below them and an ottoman which was most likely filled with shoes or more coats. It was grand nevertheless. Crystal floor lamps, a cordless telephone and a few more single footed tables sat against the walls of the hallway. It was organised well but very old-fashioned. 

The whole place screamed low intentions, dark tensions and unanswered questions.

The young butler took both men to the first door on the right just before the stairs. All three of the men’s footsteps echoed around the house as they walked through two rooms before turning left and coming to a halt outside a dark varnished wooden door. The butler knocked twice before the voice of Alexander Holder softly spoke from the opposite side of the wood. Among the door opening all John and Sherlock were greeted with was the back of Holder as he gazed out of the open windows to the large, just as beautiful back garden.

The butler departed the room, both Sherlock and John taking their seats in the dark red armchairs in front of Holder’s desk. His office was the same as the rest of the house; wood dominated the room, this time however, the smell of polish empowered both men’s nostrils. Holder had a matching office chair, dark red and leather. The office was quite spacious with mostly everything tucked away into a draw, cabinet or cupboard. Either Holder was a tidy person who did not tolerate mess or he did not trust either both Sherlock and John or his clients. The detective settled on the latter.

Holder inhaled deeply, the back of him still facing both men, “Glad you could both make it. All my staff that worked the day of the incident are currently in the staff room. They are kicking up a fuss so please,” he turned, a half smile on his face, “make it quick.”

The man gracefully placed himself in his office chair, hands meeting in a steeple, the half-hearted smile painted discomfortingly on his face. All the detective could do was stare at the man before him. Something about Holder made Sherlock’s fists clench. Holder was a manipulator, a man who radiated a controlling nature in the most sinister manner. He was the Svengali of England. A man who dominated the banking world, another’s income and your fate. He exerts a flair of luring talented, millionaires, and billionaires even to use his services. No wonder the man was security conscious, he was a walking bank, a walking target for the people he had robbed their livelihoods from.

John turned to the detective who only stared at Holder. The doctor cleared his throat in an attempt to clear the disquiet in the room. Sherlock reacted to the doctor and automatically kick started the engines like he hadn’t even zoned out.

“I will need to speak to the staff who were here between the hours of 5pm and 11pm on the night this, intriguing incident happened.” Sherlock spat, eyes never leaving the man’s before him.

“Of course, Mr Holmes. You can speak to whoever you see fit.” He smiled menacingly, eyes a much darker shade of green than yesterday, like the person he presented to both the detective and doctor yesterday was a façade. It sickened the detective. A sarcastic huff escaped his lips with a smile to match, quite stunned at Holder’s ability to fake a personality.

Sherlock scanned the room, no sign of the safe anywhere. It either was lurking in one of the several cabinets in Holder’s office or he has had it removed. Before questioning suspects, the detective needed to see the damaged Coronet. 

“I would like to observe the Beryl Coronet before I begin interviewing staff or family. I need to see the damage before I determine if it could be your son.” The detective flatly stated, face as blank as his knowledge of the solar system.

“I am quite shocked that you could even begin thinking it was my son, Mr Holmes,” Holder responded, walking to a cabinet which was situated next to a large bay window, “My son is a good lad, I know if he did do this, it was only out of curiosity not belligerence.”

Holder gently unlocked the cabinet where a steel safe was situated. He began unlocking the device via a secret code, his back to the men, vigilant and hostile like.

John furrowed his eyebrows, “But, if you think this was accident that your son caused, then why would you get in contact with a detective?”

“Consulting.” Sherlock quickly followed, correcting the army doctor.

“You can never be too sure, Doctor Watson.” Holder replied and as he turned to face the two men, the Beryl Coronet was delicately in his hands. It was beautiful, even though it had been damaged. 

He bought the coronet to the desk in front of the detective and the doctor. Within the 10 seconds it had been in the room, it had already sparked glamour and prestige into the dark wooded space.  
It was stunning. It had a golden metal frame, a white fabric with black arrows around the base to give a soft holding once on a monarchs head, in this case, it was an Earl’s Coronet. It was the last one to be discovered and it was in perfect condition like it had been teleported from 150 years ago. 

There was eight golden spikes that smoothly spiralled from the golden base and each spire had a large white pearl at the point, however three were missing. So, they had identified the gemstones that had been stolen. The detective stepped in closer, placing latex gloves on his hands, he picked the coronet up, tracing his fingers along where the pearls would have been sat. Sherlock, traced the areas once again, brows furrowed a little. 

_“Not jagged. Smooth extraction, skilled removal and delicate movement.”_

Sherlock paused, the talking behind the walls of his lungs making his heart burn from the air that had been blown against it. He sat there so innocently, like a child bouncing a ball against a wall. A smile so harmless, so absorbing, so unknowingly mischievous. Now was not the time. James just smiled at his deduction, saying what the detective had discovered before Sherlock could even process it. Was… Moriarty quicker at deduction than Sherlock? No, he maybe his equal in this world but Sherlock was the detective here, not the criminal.

_“Stop. I am working. I will be back soon.” Sherlock begged, trying to defuse the spark in Moriarty’s mischievousness. It was so captivating._

_“I am just helping you out here, Holmes. Don’t be so ungrateful.” The criminal responded, accent thick and enticing._

_“You’re distracting me.” Sherlock stated back._

_“I’m coaxing you.” Moriarty corrected the detective._

_Sherlock blinked in astonishment. Was he flirting?_

_“Please. I promise I will be back. Please?” Sherlock begged, feeling small and childlike._

_Moriarty blew a kiss to his lungs making Sherlock catch his breath, feeling unsteady, “Don’t beg, my dear. Ordinariness does not suit you. If you’re not back, I will make sure that heart of yours kisses Gotham goodnight.”_

Sherlock snapped back to reality, John stood right by his side observing the coronet just as intently. The coronet also had a red fabric which sat on the inside of the metal frame, with a gold metal leaf pattern placed on top. It was a crown, an Earl’s crown according to the detective’s knowledge. But as both men’s eyes traced the coronet a sadness filled them. The metal frame had a large semi-circular indentation that was forced outwards, like someone had pulled it out of shape. It now looked like a sailor’s hat. It was repairable but it would never be the same again. It was saddening.

John exhaled loudly, straightening up, “Well, whoever did that was a strong lad.”

Sherlock began removing the gloves, placing them back in his pocket while he stood straight. Something about the whole thing was wrong. The Beryl Coronet was damaged but perfectly done. It didn’t make sense.

“Well, Mr Holmes? What is your verdict?” Holder half-heartedly smiled once again.

“I want to speak to your son.” He bluntly replied, heading for the door.

Holder looked on at the detective before catching up with him and John, “Excuse me, but don’t you think you should ask me before you go and interrogate my son?!”

“Nope!” Sherlock exclaimed, making his way back down the hallway.

John looked to the detective as they walked through the house, “So, what are we going to ask him? Do you think he did it?”

Sherlock smiled, placing his hands in his pockets, keeping the answers to John’s questions with himself and the man who blows the wind like it is a bubble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologise for the late update my darlings. I hope you can forgive me. Next chapter in the very near future. 
> 
> Thank you so much to the lads who have been with me since the beginning of my fic and thank you to the lads who have only just found this little part of my world. I really can't thank you enough. 
> 
> Please do leave a comment on what you think so far! I love hearing from you all! Much love xoxo


	15. This House Is A Circus

15\. This House Is A Circus  
\- Room full of trouble and there's lovers to be had.

Among the wood that encircled the 12 bedded mansion were mysteries that were sealed in the depths of its walls. A Georgian house over 400 years old holding the secrets of the long dead. And even after 400 years, secrets are still being kept locked inside, something the consulting detective could not abide with.

The doctor was less sickened by the enigmas within the banker’s home. Everything about the wooded scented home intrigued him. A house with such beauty sat in the heart of London, a city which had developed too quickly for its beating heart to catch up with. 

And among the stoned walls of what seemed to be one of many reception rooms was a young man, a man holding all the answers to a Coronet with such innocence. He was elegant, even prominent to a certain extent, with short smart hair to match. A suit pressed crisp from its creases. Hazel eyes, soft and calming. He was dressed to perfection, just like his father. But beneath the glam and dapper impression was a small boy who seemed and felt so out of place. Holder’s son Arthur was nothing like his father. Arthur was the complete opposite.

As Sherlock and John began nearing Arthur he weakly smiled, failing to reach his eyes. The detective took note, the young man feeling nervous even before questioning was not a good sign.

John stretched his hand out to the boy, “Arthur, I’m John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes.”

He smiled weakly once again shaking the doctors hand before shaking the consulting detectives, their hands lingering together in a handshake a little too long. The detective pulled his hand away sharply, analysing the gesture Arthur just made. A lingering hand means they are hoping for sympathy or trying to gain something. Was Arthur trying to defuse the matter at hand? Trying to get the detective to believe what he has to say? The detective held the question.

“Good morning gentleman,” he spoke gesturing for them to take a seat, “I had been told that my father contacted you, Mr Holmes. I honestly do not know why he has, it was an accident. I was just examining the object.”

John placed himself on the fabric couch a little too happily. A smile formed on his face at how comfortable the couch was. He felt like a royal.

“For a man of your intelligence it is highly unlikely you would examine a coronet in the middle of the night where your father takes residence and there would be several eye witnesses to see you do it.” Sherlock quickly answered as he paced around the room, his eyes never leaving the young man.

Arthur turned slightly to the detective to the right of him, “And if I did it in the middle of the day, Mr Holmes, then there would have been a higher chance of it being stolen with the amount of clients my father has arrive and depart each day.”

“Yes, but it would have been much less suspicious, because right now, you are the main suspect with just your words as proof you were not attempting to steal it.” Sherlock lowly responded, coming to a halt by the fireplace. 

Arthur huffed slightly, hands rising in a defence matter, “I-I was just looking at it, I never meant for it to seem suspicious. Why would I even steal from my own father?!”

Sherlock inwardly huffed at the man’s actions. Hands raised in a defensive matter, stuttering, inability to look at him and defending his honour by answering with questions. These were clear behavioural reactions of a liar. Everyone, even the most intelligent men in the world will display these behavioural personalities and reactions when they lie. It is what makes each individual human. 

The detective overlooked the situation. Why was Arthur so quick to be deceitful to the doctor and himself? Why would he even lie to his own father, a man who would cause harm to another just to get his own way? Arthur is either hiding the true events or he is lying. The detective didn’t quite believe the latter. He needed to prove himself right.

“You did.” Sherlock stated.

“What?” John turned to the detective, eyes wide, “Sherlock, you can’t know that.”

Sherlock ignored John, eyes on the young man, “Why did you extract three pearls from the golden spires?”

The detective watched on, everything before him was some sort of a delusion. How would this elegant young man, an intelligent and insightful man lie about something so blinding obvious? He did extract the three pearls, his hands said it all.

Arthur huffed, his eyes firmly locked on Sherlock’s, “I did no such thing.”

John stood, stalking over to the detective, irritation painted on his face, “Sherlock! Holder will have our bollocks as earrings if you carry on.”

“Oh, come on John! It is written all over his face that he extracted the three missing pearls. He couldn’t lie to save his life.”

“You could.” John spat back, staring at the taller man before him.

A stunned breath of air made its way into the lungs of the detective. After all these years, John still had to dig up the past. The past is history and it belongs to be left among the ashes or roses it leaves behind. Sherlock had apologised so many times for his actions 2 years ago. But it was all necessary, as much as John didn’t and still doesn’t like it.

The young man stood, curtly heaving down his suit before he clenched his fists at his sides, “This is outrageous. I have done no such thing to what you are stating, Mr Holmes. I have nothing else to say on the matter. Please feel free to interrogate all the innocent people around here. I doubt they will be as polite as I was though.” He proclaimed. 

Both men watched on as Arthur stomped across the wooden boarded floor before slamming the door behind him. The young man was not going to give up evidence up easily. Even though he expressed a hard, businessman like nature, just like his father, the detective still saw a calm, caring and soft man. It was hard to understand why he portrayed someone who was as cold as the dark half of the blue and brutal as a hurricane terrorised floor. 

The detective moaned, turning away in annoyance.

“Well, great going, Sherlock. Our main suspect and you have gone and pissed him off!” John loudly whispered.

“He’s lying through his back teeth, John! He knows exactly what happened that night. If Arthur isn’t going to give it up until we have circumstantial evidence then so be it. I will get it out of him, even if it kills me.” Sherlock snapped storming towards the exit before slamming the door, leaving a vacant faced John staring into oblivion. 

The detective stomped down the wooden hall way, varnish settling into the fabrics of his coat. The smell was so overwhelming, so crushing that the detective felt slightly nauseas. And before he could take a deep breathe to keep the bile at bay in his stomach, a flood of hot burning touch filled his chest. The detective wheezed slightly staggering against the wall, clutching it for dear life. And then the man he had tried to keep away from the most imperative part of his delicate body appeared behind the smoke behind his heart. The man was wearing his famous dark blue Westwood suit, a suit that the detective found to be his favourite. The man wasn’t smirking, not even a slight smile painted his face. His eyes were dark and spellbinding. They were a darker shade, a darker shade of feeling, a darker grip on the detective. 

He stepped close to the detective, inches away, close enough to lock lips. All the detective could do was catch his breath.

Moriarty tried to speak but didn’t, the words delayed in his throat. And then he spoke words only his eyes could keep sealed away, _“I don’t want you here with me, ever.”_

_Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, breathing heavy against the criminals face. Why was he saying this? What is wrong with him?_

_“W-What? I…”_

_“Don’t make me repeat it, Sherlock. It aches enough.”_

_“But, I like being here… with you.” The detective whispered, stepping closer only for the criminal to take a step back, shaking his head towards the floor._

_The criminal raised his head, a tiny sad smile on his face, “And I like you alive.”_

_Sherlock huffed, “I thought this is what you wanted, me, here, with you, forever. Locked away from reality and all its hearts.”_

_“I said, I don’t want you here, ever again.” Moriarty lowly responded, fists clenched at his side._

_The detective looked on at his beloved criminal. This wasn’t the man he kept away, the man who teased him, who blew air against his lungs to distract him. A criminal, a psychopath, a mad man with a heart of smirks and tin pot words._

_Sherlock smirked, “Oh, is this because I said I will find out Arthur is lying even if it kills me? Don’t panic he will come clean, I hope.”_

_Moriarty snapped his left hand on to the white pristine shirt of the detective’s pulling the detective as close as he could. All Sherlock could feel and smell was the warm minty breath the criminal breathed. Their eyes were centimetres away and their lips even closer. Sherlock stared at the eyes of the criminal. Oh they were so golden, yes they were brown but it depends in what light and how close you were to the hot blooded man. The creases around his eyes has their own perfection, they curved his eyes in the most beautiful way, the way the moon curves itself in the dark night sky. Moriarty's lips were the most alluring, so plump, so pink. Lips that could kiss crimson scissored cuts in your skin. Lips that would leave prints that would burn your skin. Sensations the detective wanted to encounter, sensations only the man before him could make. A heat pooled at the centre of each of the men's chests. Nothing could match this moment for the detective. Close was not close enough._

_James Moriarty exhaled loudly, eyes knitted together, “Don’t. Do. This.”_

_“Do what?” Sherlock whispered back, hands reaching to pull the criminal closer. Either Moriarty would willing let him or snap into a fierce lion. The latter seemed more likely._

_“This. Stop it. I like to watch you dance.”_

_A flashback hit Sherlock back to the days were he would solve the wonderful cases Moriarty had flirtingly set up for him where he would watch him dance, follow his every move. It was comforting to know the criminal protected his life all that time and even in his mind palace he was doing the same. The detective put his hand on the criminals hip, his hand lingering there a second to study the psychopaths reaction. The criminal groaned for a split second, any other person would have missed it. Sherlock began pulling him ever so slightly and to the astonishment of Sherlock, James didn’t resist. Sherlock pulled his hips to his, only a tiny gap between each of their hips. Sherlock heavily sighed. It still wasn't close enough. Not enough heat, not enough time, not enough to study how the criminal affected his body and how he affected criminals._

_“I won’t die.” Sherlock said quietly, his hand searching the area he was holding, a large sigh leaving his lips._

_“Then go, away.” Moriarty lowly answered. The hand on his hip making his voice become a little groggy even though it felt too good to admit._

_“No.”_

_“Sherlock.” He lowly answered again._

_“No."_

_“I’m warning you.” Moriarty gritted his teeth while his hand gripped his shirt a little tighter, pulling him ever so slightly closer._

_“I’m not leaving, this is my mind palace.” Sherlock responded, eyes on the criminal, bodies nearly touching, his hand still firmly on James Moriarty’s hip._

_Then the criminal raised his head, a smile on his lips and then he whispered words, unforgettable words, “Ne m'oublies pas, chéri". ”_

The detective involuntary snapped back, his heart beating ten time faster than before. All he could see was an ocean of black and before he could register what was happening his eyes were greeted with wooden walls and varnished floors. He was back to normal but even though he was back, there was no underlying burning sensation anywhere around his chest, it was cold. Colder than it has ever been. 

Those… words he spoke. French. The detective stood still a second, translating the words the criminal whispered. Suddenly, Sherlock held his breath. No. _No._ This cannot be happening. 

_Don’t miss me, darling._

Sherlock breathed slightly quicker, the words he just digested he was refusing to keep down. Where is he? Where is James? A number of feelings flooded the detective, too many in fact. Emotions that sunk into him quicker than a needle. The criminal, had disappeared, left, gone. He had deserted him, left him to fend for himself after all that time together. Sherlock quickly searched the places the criminal always settled in. Behind his lungs, next to his heart, balancing among his ribs, watching inside his chest. He was nowhere. The criminal had… _gone._

All this because the detective would die to solve this case, a case he was determined to solve. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or shocked. The latter seemed more likely. He had seen a different side to the criminal, a more vulnerable side, a more human side. The criminal wanted him alive, to live a life so he left him to make sure that happened? Moriarty cares, he cares more than he should. Sherlock stared into the wood, the actions of the criminal sinking in. 

Sherlock slumped against the wall. His only equal had left him, alone in a world that was in honestly too big for him. Sherlock closed his eyes and all he could do was hope this was just a game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Moriarty has left Sherlock to fend for himself and let him live... But where has he gone? *evil laugh*
> 
> Wasn't really sure about this chapter but we shall see.  
> Thanks for sticking with me xo


	16. 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter in a few days? It must be Christmas ;)  
> Enjoy lads

16\. 42  
\- Those who are dead are not dead, they’re just living in my head. And since I fell for that spell, I am living there as well.

Why do people leave your life? Either out of lack of contact or because they feel like they have to? Some say it is teach us all a lesson or make us see the difference between right and wrong, real and fake. Everyone leaves you in the end, it doesn’t matter in what form it takes, everyone is left heartbroken. In some cases, the people who left colossal marks, holes or scars on your heart can be healed by another. Some say you never fully heal, some say that you become a wiser person, a better person but in the end that person will never be forgotten by you no matter how hard you try.

It never seems to change from person to person. Every single person on this flaw covered planet feels the same emotions when it comes down to someone leaving your life. Everyone deals with it differently, but everyone has that same underlying feeling, a feeling Sherlock Holmes felt to deep, too hard. 

It had been precisely 12 minutes and 17 seconds since the criminal had departed and the detective hadn’t moved a muscle from the wall he had slumped himself against. He hoped that he would appear again, somewhere he would be lurking and smirking, but he didn't appear. Sherlock stared into nothing in particular, trying to numb the coldness he was feeling against his chest.

He stared out of the bay window, eyes focused on the slight sway of common limes, a deciduous broadleaf tree that settled into the background of the large bay window. His eyes wandered, trying to forget the hole that had been left. Beds of more plants, flowers and shrubs graced the bottom of the window, some large daises topped themselves above the light pink and white flowers that were too distant to make out. It didn’t matter to the detective, the beauty within those colours made him hazy. But even though a warm haze was drifting through the large bay window, Sherlock felt cold. The first time he had felt this cold in a long while. It felt like liquid metal dripping into his veins and the taste magnetism lingering in his brain.

In those 15 minutes of the detective being slumped against the wooden wall not a single person had walked down the hallway. The house was oddly silent. Too silent and so was the detectives mind palace. There was no low mumbling or humming. The singing of riddles from his one and only equal, his criminal. It was terrifyingly painful.

As the detective retained his eyes on the scenery a little blonde head popped up among the flowers, a canvas with strokes of a brush. They were among the wildlife and the souls of London. It was an intriguing sight to the detective, tilting his head to the side. He took to his feet, feeling a little unsteady before walking right up to the bay window, his hands sliding into his long coat pockets.

He watched the blonde headed artist casually paint among the flowers and plants. Delicately stroking the brush against a large canvas. What was being beautifully painted was too difficult to decipher but even from a distance, the colours were stunning. The blonde headed artist then turned slightly to the right bending down to something and then it hit the detective to who it was.

“Mary, the cousin.” Sherlock whispered standing straight. He took a deep breath before departing to the garden where wonders were being painted leaving his worries behind, for now.

 

\--

 

The kitchen was an impressive sight. It was more like something from a country farm. Pots and pans hung from the top of the built in stove and oven which was black iron. A refined oven, the best in the business. Shelves graced with different jars and pots of ingredients from spices all the way to jams and pickles were against most of two walls. Marble surfaces with stacks of wooden chopping boards and large marble square pots full of utensils from ladles to whisks. A middle island work top with fresh fruit bowls, garlic and pots of herbs were shining under sunlight. A skylight was above letting the sunlight spill over the kitchen. It was bright, it was airy, it was a working kitchen. It was magnificent. 

Tens of maids and servants were working ten to the dozen preparing for the rest of the day. It looked like something out of Downton Abbey. And as John stood there in the doorway overlooking the glorious kitchen all he was greeted with was the smell of beef stew slow cooking on the iron stove.

“Um, excuse me… Hello… Hi I am looking…”

Everyone who walked past the army doctor ignored him. Each one of them was busy, preparing and cleaning. He felt rude disturbing them but he needed to speak to some eye witnesses no matter how busy they were. 

“Can I help you mate?” A friendly voice asked from behind him.

The doctor turned towards the voice and behind him was a young lad, in his twenties wearing a white shirt and black trousers. He had brown short hair, green eyes, well built and a cheeky smile on his face. He seemed friendly enough.

“Oh, um, yes please… I am here to talk to a Lucy Parr? I have been informed that she was the waiting maid two nights ago and I just need her account of what happened on that night she was working.” John politely informed, smiling at the man.

“Lucy?” the young man repeated, looking around the large kitchen, “I think she might be on her lunch break. Try through the back kitchen door, she normally eats outside on a day like this.” He pointed to the back door, a little smile on his face.

“Oh, thank you very much.” John thanked while he began walking through the kitchen.

John made his way through the large kitchen, the smell of beef stew making his stomach rumble slightly. He stepped through the back door into the open gardens. White gravel underneath his feet, the path travelling both sides of the wall of kitchen into other sections of the garden. Beds of plants were scattered around in front of him all tidy and precise with flower arrangements. The trickling of water and the chirp of birds graced his ears. It was peaceful, it was beautiful.

“You okay, sir?” 

John turned to the voice to the left of him. A young girl was sat on a bench against the wall in the shade eating an apple with her lunchbox by the side of her. She was a strawberry blonde, slim, light faced and had fabulous posture.

“Yes, I am looking for Lucy Parr.” John answered stepping closer to the girl.

She shuffled left of the bench, “You’ve found her.” 

“Oh,” John quietly said placing himself gently on the beach, a little sigh leaving his lips, taking in the scenery. 

Lucy watched the army doctor a second before turning her head to the setting, “Wonderful isn’t it?”

“It certainly is. I would never have thought something like this was in the heart of Streatham.” He chuckled turning to look at Lucy.

“London is full of wonders, you just have to look harder.”

They both sat in silence, taking in the gardens in front of them and even though they were sat in a large garden in London, you couldn’t hear any traffic, the screeches or sirens of the never sleeping city. It was extraordinary.

“I’m guessing you are here for the other night.” Lucy guessed correctly, relaxing into the bench.

“Yes, I am working alongside the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, I have a few questions just to get your account of what happened that night.”

“Well, I was on the night shift. You don’t really do much. Holder, Arthur and Mary don’t usually need anything in the middle of the night so you’re either deep cleaning something or preparing for the next day. It’s quite nice, no one bothers you plus I can sneakily bring in my study work.” She smiled.

“What were your duties two nights ago?” John asked, his notebook and pen making an appearance. 

She paused, squinting her eyes a little, “I was deep cleaning the second reception room. Mr Holder likes them cleaned thoroughly regularly due to the amount of visitors he has. First impressions are everything to that man.” She bitterly responded taking a bite of her blood red apple.

“Second reception room?” John questioned.

“Yes, next to Holder’s office. It is his favourite I would say… Maybe because it is the closest to the front door,” she chuckled, “He really isn’t a people person.”

“But he is a banker, he is with people most hours of the day, surely?”

She laughed, “Have you met Holder? He isn’t exactly the friendliest person is he? He most likely works with the devil with that smirk of his.”

John tapped his book with his pen looking to Lucy, “I’m guessing you are not very fond of him then?”

“No one likes him here. The only reason why people stay is that he pays good, plus… this,” she nodded to the gardens, “is a hidden wonder we can admire.”

The army doctor looked to the scenery, thinking about what Lucy had just said. No one likes Holder? That means any of them could have the motive to attempt to steal the Coronet. They all work in close proximity to Holder and his clients, they surely would… hear deals. But then again, why would they want to steal it if Holder pays them all a good wage? He held the question, that was something he needed to ask.

“Do you... you know… hear stuff when Holder has meetings with clients?” John asked hoping she wouldn’t take it the wrong way. 

She chuckled, “Of course you do,” she sadly smiled, “But Holder makes us all swear to not speak of anything we hear about meetings with his clients. Client confidentiality and all that.”

“Did you hear of a deal that included an object rather than money?” John asked, his eyes a little wide.

She shook her head, “No I don’t think so but then you’re asking the wrong person. The butler Henry hears more than the rest of us.”

“The young boy at the door?”

“Yes, he is Holder’s personal butler.” She clarified, taking another bite of her apple.

“But he is an arsehole.” John joked.

“That’s why he and Holder get on so well.” She joked too, both of them laughing.

John wrote some notes down while Lucy munched at the rest of her apple. It was good that Lucy was open about it all. Everyone John had spoken to so far was keeping evidence like it was a personal possession. He wondered about Sherlock and what mischief he had been getting up to.

“Um the night you worked two nights ago while you deep cleaned, did you hear anything from Holder’s office at about 4am?” John asked listening intently at what she had to say.

She paused trying to focus on the other night, “I… I am not sure what time it was… I tend to not look at the clock on a night shift, it always drags but yes I did. I heard… voices.”

John’s eyes lit up, jackpot, “Voices?”

“Yes,” she closed her eyes, “two voices. Two deep voices. I mean they were whispering so it is hard to tell who they were. I know there was Arthur, I mean, everyone knows but… there was definitely someone else.”

“Do you have any idea who they could have been? Maids? Servants? Henry even?” the army doctor pushed.

“Henry only works in the day. He finishes about 6pm. Only one waiting maid and one night-watchman works on night shifts. And it certainly wasn’t me, I mean I was called to his office after the incident just a few minutes later.” She explained. 

“Who was the night-watchman that night?”

“Um… Tuesday so that would have been… Matt or Matthew if you like. The night-watchman has the access to cameras around the house. The camera room where he is based is around to the left.” She nodded towards the left of the bench where the path disappeared.

“Was it his voice you heard? In the office?” John enquired.

“Matthew? You got to be kidding me, he doesn’t move unless necessary.” She once again chuckled, placing a strand of hair behind her ear.

John paused, he had so many questions and so little time, “Who was there when you were called? Anyone you didn’t recognise?” 

“There was Arthur, Holder and Mary. Mary though was on the floor because she had fainted. I had to wake her up. There was no one else there Mr Watson. I assure you that.” She promised, packing away her lunchbox into her brown leather bag before standing and placing her bag strap on her shoulder.

John stood pulling down his coat a little, “Thank you for your help. I might be back at some point to ask some more questions if that is ok?”

She smiled towards the army doctor, “Of course, any time.”

Lucy walked towards the back kitchen door leaving John to ponder other his notes. She had been very useful. She answered many questions the army doctor wanted to know. Another person was with Arthur in the study, most likely a man considering she specified a deep voice. It could have been Holder or this so called Matthew. Or even a completely different man altogether. Maybe the footage on the cameras will shed a little light on this.

“Oh, um I forgot to tell you,” Lucy popped her head around the door, John turning around to her with a smile, “Mary didn’t get in until late on that night.”

“Late?”

“Um about… 2am maybe? It was definitely a few hours before the drama happened.” She clarified.

“Any idea where she was at that time?” John asked.

“Rumour has it that she has a boyfriend.” Lucy smiled before popping back into the kitchen. 

This case was taking an odd twist. Even with questions answered there was still secrets being held in these varnished wooded walls.

 

\--

 

The sun was brighter than expected to the detective. Everything seemed too bright for him since a dark but warm figure had left him lost at a sea he couldn’t swim away from. He narrowed his eyes, raising a hand to shield him from the light. It was like he had been injecting heroin into his veins. Everything didn’t seem real, everything seemed pointless. A substance he always had in his veins was now not there. Maybe it was withdrawal symptoms instead.

Sherlock stepped down the light stone paved path towards the blonde soul who was painting some sort of landscape. And every step he took closer it became clearer into what Mary was painting: the Rainbow Mountains of China. The colours on the canvas were so colourful, so beautiful that the detective couldn’t believe the talent this young girl had. He sighed a little hoping little Amelia would be as talented.

The overwhelming heat and light from the sun made the detective stumble forward a little, reaching for a plant border to the left of him. He put his hands out in front of him, catching himself on it, gripping tight before sitting on the wooden border catching his breath. Why did the disappearance of the criminal have such a traumatic effect on him? Sherlock clenched his jaw at the thought.

He looked up at Mary painting away, unaware of the detective just behind her. The detail of the mountains was exquisite. It was unbelievable. 

“The Rainbow Mountains in The Gansu Zhangye National Geopark located in Northen China. They cover an area of 322 square kilometres and they are the result of deposits of sandstone and other minerals that occurred over 24 million years.” Sherlock stated, looking on at the painting.

Mary paused painting turning towards the detective, a look of astonishment on her face at the knowledge that spilled out of his mouth quicker than a waterfall. She smiled slightly, turning fully towards him.

“Correct. I’m surprised someone knows them facts in an exquisite amount of detail.” She smiled.

“I am surprised some one as young as you does too,” Sherlock said flatly, “It’s a very good painting.”

She huffed turning back to her painting, re-wetting her brush, “That makes a change.”

“Surely your uncle says wonderful things about your paintings.” Sherlock replied, actually knowing the real answer.

She bitterly laughed, “You don’t know him like I do.”

“No, but you know what happened the other night.” Sherlock snapped back, waiting for her response.

She paused painting, completely still at his question. Hesitation is the behavioural reaction of a liar. Once again, another one lying to save their own back or… someone else’s. It amazed the consulting detective as to why they just don’t tell the truth. It saves a large amount of time and patience.

“I heard my uncle shouting at someone so I rushed downstairs to see what the noise was all about. He was shouting at Arthur, literally laying into him. It was the most pleasant thing to experience.” She answered. 

“You missed out that you fainted? Maybe because it was fake and you were hoping that it would be forgotten about because you certainly did.”

“Yes, I did faint,” she snapped back, “that’s because the most beautiful object was being held in Arthur’s hands and it was damaged!”

“Don’t lie, it doesn’t suit someone of your talent.” Sherlock barked back, patience wearing remarkably thin.

“I swear, I fainted at the sight of it. Every girl dreams of a crown.” She said back, before she began painting delicately back.

“Not you though, Mary. You dream of escaping, getting away from Holder, away from London. That’s why you paint all these paintings of landscapes across the world. You dream of fleeing a life you want to escape from.” Sherlock clarified, before standing, feeling a little nauseas, the sun becoming brighter every breath he breathed.

Sherlock turned leaving an oddly silent Mary sitting and wondering how a man like Sherlock could know something like that. The detective walked back down the path, the only thing on his mind was something more than cigarettes. This was withdrawal. This was more than he could handle. This was torture. He stumbled back in doors, holding the walls as he made his way for the front door. The smell of varnish and wood overwhelming him. The criminal had left him fighting his own thought process, his heart ruling his head. His heart burning up at the fact the criminal had left a mark on him, a scar he needed to be permant. He slammed the door behind him bringing all the demons he never wanted to ever encounter again with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obsession or addiction?  
> Mary or Arthur?  
> Drugged or withdrawal?  
> Alive or dead?
> 
> *Evil grin* xo


	17. Bloodstream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Eventual drug use.

17\. Bloodstream  
\- I was never meant to hurt no one.

The way Sherlock slammed the living room door open would have been loud enough to wake the dead. And even though that statement couldn’t have been true, how the detective wished it was. The man he needed, the man that stopped this, all of this was six foot under a gravestone somewhere among the cemeteries of London. Maybe he is still alive, maybe he is suffocating under 6 layers of soil. 

No, he needed to stop it. _Stop_ . Stupid. Too many emotions rushed through his head and he needed something in his veins, he needed him, why wasn’t he here? Why did he kill himself? Why did his James had to leave his mind palace? Why was he doing this? Why did he shoot himself? The detective thought at how good they could have been together. Not as a couple but as the criminal and the detective. A perfect pair. Dancing at each other’s moves. It was a match made in hell.

Sherlock roughly stumbled towards the table, only being able to catch himself from falling by tumbling on top of the table. He raised himself up, his hands began scrambling across the table. Where is it? He needed it. Ne needed to forget to remember. His hands scrambled the table that quickly that he looked desperate, he looked mad and he was both.

He growled into the cold open flat staggering towards the fireplace, tripping over his chair as he faltered passed. His hands jumbled the fireplace, searching boxes and his skull. None. Why wasn’t there any? He always has some. _Always._

Sherlock growled loudly, his hands sweeping everything off the mantelpiece, everything smashing to the floor in a domino fashion. He swung so far that his body swung too far and he ended up falling to the floor, smashing his head on the edge of his chair. He crashed to the floor, a cut on his temple with tangy metallic blood trickling down his face. 

He laid there silently, slightly dazed from the fall. He was delusional, frightened, and lonely. The detective all of a sudden became sleepy. Sleep didn’t seem like a bad alternative to what he needed and didn’t seem to have. Sleep your troubles and worries away but it would all be the same when you wake up. The same need, want and urge for the same man, the same thing, the same life. Everything was wrong. Moriarty wasn’t supposed to be dead, he wasn’t supposed to do that. Why did he do that? Why?

Sherlock sleepily gazed under his chair, laying on the floor, undetermined to move. The darkness under the chair was soothing compared to the burning light outside. And while he gazed under the chair, a rectangular piece hung from the bottom. The detective squinted, looking at the shape cast in the dark under his chair. 

His eyes lightened up, moving his arm slightly to grab the shape attached to the bottom of the chair. He yanked it away, and then it hit him. This was it. This is what he wanted. 

Sherlock weakly pushed himself up, clambering to sit down, his back against his chair and his legs sprawled out in front of him. The box was small, rectangular and matt black. He placed it in his lap, a childlike image where children would place toys in their lap and begin to play with them. Sherlock slowly undone the sterling silver clasp and opened the box. And there it was. Shining among the velvet black fabric it was settled upon.

The consulting detective gave a huge sigh of relief and before he could begin forgetting to remember he struggled to take his coat of. He finally was free from his coat and suit jacket. He had one more layer to take off but impatience got the better of the detective. He stabbed the slim silver point into his skin through the fabric of his shirt and slowly began letting the fluid he needed flow into his bloodstream.

And within seconds, he was gone. 

 

\--

 

 _Everything about his mind palace screamed the criminal. There was debris scattered among all the things that Sherlock had stored away. And even though everything was in the same place, the detective didn’t feel like he was. It was darker, it was colder and it was everything the detective loathed._

_Sherlock slowly staggered among the paths where the criminal wandered, knocking everything he clumsily brushed past to the floor. The chemical in his veins tampered with his ability to focus even in his mind palace let alone reality. The paths he treaded on had footprints. Size 10, leather and a slight heel. It was him. It was what was left of him._

_He reminisced on everything he felt when he was in the company of the criminal. Burning is being within his gaze but he wasn’t sure a man with such delicate movements could crease the rain. A man that smelt of roses among a petrol soiled field. The most dangerous amalgamation, he wished for that gaze and scent. The most beguiling wish among a star filled sky. A man wrapped in paraphernalia, a man opposite to the heroic saviour. A man that could dominate any chair that crossed his riddled kissed airways, from a deckchair to a stall at a bar. Riddles that sat within his words and riddles that sat within his scent. Smoke which never leaves you, cologne that prints itself upon your skin. Spearmint sat within his gums and it kissed the most twisted of scents. Irish coffee was his specialism in pestering your own senses. Could a man with such intelligence fool a genius in waiting with just the scent he leaves behind? And to the detective’s disgust, Moriarty really could._

_A growl left the detective’s lips, every staggered step he took made him angrier, more desperate to find Moriarty. It didn’t matter that the real Moriarty on the dark side of reality was 6 foot under the ground, his Moriarty meant more to him, he was more real than anyone he had the misfortune of meeting. He was more human, more frightening, and more alluring._

_Could you paint the insides of the ocean darker than his eyes? Those warm, soulless and absorbing eyes. If the universe was as bright as the astronomer’s say then why does someone made of stars have eyes so dark?_

_Everything was banging on the walls from sunlight to the images of what the detective had left of the criminal. It was all too much. Too many promises Sherlock had made, too many feelings, and too much debris left by him. James Moriarty was burning Sherlock from the inside out. It was withdrawal even though he had drugs in his veins. It wasn’t strong enough, it wasn’t real enough. Sweet nightmares on a cloud floating dream. Too lost in himself and too lost in him._

_Sherlock collapsed to the floor, surrounded by the footprints and the scent of what the criminal had left behind._

_“Please… Come back.”_

_He whispered so quietly that he wasn’t sure that he even said it. And that was all the detective could beg for before he felt an unsettled heated from beyond his mind._

 

\--

 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes together. The light emitting from the large windows too much for him to handle. He felt unsteady, the drugs still flowing through his veins but the effects slowly wearing off. A sad, heavy sigh fell from his chest. Sitting in the silence of 221B was comforting. Being in his own company was what he needed right now even though it wasn’t what he needed at all. 

The detective slowly opened his eyes at the sound of the front door being slammed shut. It slammed shut so hard that it was possible that it came off its hinges. Two sets of footsteps quickly made their way up the stairs and before Sherlock had time to stand and look half decent for his visitors John appeared around the living room door. His face was like thunder, all that darkness but a crackling under the surface. Sherlock could only stupidly smile at the doctor as he sat on the floor with his back against his chair. 

John stalked over to him before grabbing the detective by the shirt, furiously pulling him to his feet.

“Whoa, whoa, John…” Sherlock slurred as he got pulled to his feet. 

John pushed him back slightly before turning and walking away, fists clenched at his sides. Sherlock swayed as he attempted to stand still and function and react like he wasn’t high. Then another bunch of footsteps made their way across the floor and to the astonishment of Sherlock, it was his brother. Mycroft stalked over to his brother, his face even darker than the doctors.

“Ahh, brother dear. What a plea-“

Mycroft slapped Sherlock across the cheek. The slap was so hard across the detective’s face that he collapsed to the floor. His body so drugged up that he was unable to keep himself standing. Sherlock pulled himself to a sitting position, his hand holding his face. The pain of the slap was dulled, the drugs taking care of anything that was happening to his body.

“W-Well… thank you.” Sherlock mumbled, a hand raising to his jaw.

“STOP IT, SHERLOCK. STOP IT.” Mycroft shouted to him, looking down at his brother who looked so small and so lost.

“It was only one.” Sherlock reassured, the lie was in plain sight.

“What have you taken?” Mycroft cried at the detective.

“You already know, stop pestering me and leave me alone.” The detective angrily begged.

“You promised me, Sherlock. YOU promised EVERYONE that you’d never touch it, ever, again.” Mycroft spat.

Sherlock chuckled, his head falling back slightly before looking up to his overpowering brother, “Then you’re all as stupid as you look.”

Mycroft crouched before slapping Sherlock across the face again. Sherlock smirked at his brother, a slight mischievous twist to the smirk as he stared at his brother. 

“I’m not playing this game, Sherlock. Why?”

Sherlock looked away from his older brother. The answer to that question shall never be answered or spoken to anyone other than the man who is behind it. 

“WHY?!” Mycroft shouted in his brother’s face.

“No.” Sherlock spoke quietly back.

“Sherlock.”

“NO.” Sherlock screamed back, his lungs struggling to take in air from the drugs pumping through him.

Mycroft looked to the floor, “You’re a disgrace, Sherlock. It’s always the same complications with you. The same demons, demons that have been sitting in the centre of what you call a heart.”

Sherlock swallowed hard at the words his brother spoke. The detective never has lived a unpretentious life, not only because it is tedious and conventional but because of the paths he had been led down due to circumstances out of his control. Sherlock slightly wheezed at the words. He was everything he promised he wouldn’t be; a drug addict and a criminal. Sherlock buried his head into his hands, feeling so small and unaccompanied.

This was all a ploy, a trick, a game. Moriarty had won this one. Defeat was something the detective didn’t take well but this was something he couldn’t deny. He was addicted to Moriarty.

“You don’t understand.” Sherlock quietly uttered, looking up to the two soaring and overpowering men.

“You don’t understand, Sherlock. These are substances that could kill you, this is an addiction you will always crawl back to. Everything you are, everything you promised you’d never be you have become. You hold dark secrets that you can’t even accept.” Mycroft lowly responded, towering over his little brother.

Sherlock looked up to his brother, a huff leaving his lips as he swayed on the floor. A sad smile was painted on his lips before he swallowed hard, “Then go. Leave me to my demons and all that I am. GO!”

Sherlock shouted up to both men, jaw clenched. Even though he did this, he was never meant to hurt no one. No one was meant to find out. Just him, his bloodstream and a man that was missing.

Mycroft stared at Sherlock. Both brothers locked eyes in the most intimate way. It broke the older brother every second he stared at the boy who always couldn’t face his demons. A small, lost boy who always injected them away. It was all too much for the man and in one swift movement he departed the room and seconds later the front door slammed shut. 

Sherlock swayed slightly on the floor before looking up to his best friend who stood a few metres away from him. Sherlock sadly smiled at the doctor, a feeling of guilt and regret washing over him. He broke a promise, a promise that he never wished he broke.

“J-John, I-“

“Don’t,” The doctor interrupted, “Don’t.”

Sherlock looked away in frustration before a little groan escaped his lips, “I had to do this. I needed to release… something. I-I, I’m sorry.”

“No, Sherlock, you are not sorry. You, are _never,_ sorry. You say sorry and always do it again. You said earlier today that the word ‘sorry’ was taken for granted and you were right. You do take it for granted,” John paused, clearing his throat, “I can’t do this.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, making his way to his feet and to his surprise, he was in a stable condition, “John, I needed to do this, I couldn’t-“

“NO, YOU WANTED TO DO THIS. IT IS THE SAME THING EVERYTIME SHERLOCK. You wanted to lose yourself, to forget. I don’t know the reason why but whatever turned you back to them you need to get rid of it. And I am not being anywhere near you until you get rid of it.”

John made his way for the door, Sherlock turning even colder than he had ever been. This was all his fault. He is losing everyone he needs.

“John,” Sherlock called to him. John paused by the door, looking back at the detective who looked lost in a place he couldn’t be, “Please.”

The doctor shook his head, “No, sod this. You’re on your own.”

Sherlock watched as his best friend departed 221B for what seemed to be for the last time. And in that moment, a burning pulse began filling his chest. It stole all the air in Sherlock’s lungs and in a flash he was back down on the living room floor. Then, among the smoke, he appeared from behind some forgotten memories with a smirk darker than any black matter in the universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh this is my least favourite chapter. I really am not sure about it but it needed to head this way. Honestly don't blame you if you don't like it. Thank you for staying with me this long in this wacky story. Please let me know what you think of this chapter xo


	18. Into You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A little bit dangerous, but that's the way I want."

18\. Into You  
\- I'm so into you, I can barely breathe, all I want to do is to fall in deep. But close isn’t close enough until we cross the line, so name a game to play, and I'll roll a dice.

_10 metres apart, just as dominating as the day he left. A smirk painted to his rose flushed cheeks, a suit pressed crisp of its demons and all he could do was stare at Sherlock. A heat rose from the detective, a burning, anger-biting, lustful heat. It made the stomach of the detective twist and turn and each movement it made it left butterflies._

_Wearing Westwood, light grey this time, with a pale yellow tie and a white pristine shirt. Even the way he dressed was captivating._

_Sherlock began breathing rapidly, his chest rising and falling quicker than it had ever done. The longer he stood staring back at the man who tasted of danger, who smelt of home, who kissed his airways without a single press of the lips, the angrier he became. Moriarty could see everything, all the affects he had on the consulting detective. He just stared at the man. It was like he was drinking him in. James Moriarty was the worst habit, the worst addiction but the most extraordinary man he has ever had the pleasure of encountering._

_Where the hell has he been? It had only been a total of 5 hours and 17 minutes since he had departed but to the detective, it felt like five years and it was the most excruciating and torturing five hours he had ever experienced. And James Moriarty had the audacity to return whenever he damn well likes?! The detective gave out a hard huff before he launched himself across the 10 metres of space between them, his eyes fixated on the criminal._

_Every prowling stride the detective took towards his beloved criminal made him crave him a light year more. Everything about the man in front of him was a mystery, just like distant galaxies, the depths of the ocean and he wanted to know every single inch of the criminal._

_The stomping strides Sherlock took towards Moriarty didn’t make the criminal flinch at all. Not even an eyelash. Moriarty stood still, overpowering the detective without even a movement or a single word. His hands stuck in his custom Westwood trousers, his famous spellbinding smirk still firmly dragging the detective closer and closer._

_Sherlock grabbed the criminal by the front folds of his Westwood and ferociously pushed backwards a few yards until he slammed the criminal against the wall. Sherlock held on to the front folds of Moriarty’s suit, the nervousness, the anger pouring out of the detective began to make his hands sweat. His legs were either side of the consulting criminals, and even though the criminal was trapped between a man that was taller than him and a wall, he just playfully smirked up at the detective. A smirk darker than any black matter in the universe._

_The detective’s face was inches away from the criminals. Sherlock breathing hard into the small space in-between both men. All the taller man could smell was the tanginess of petrol, the sweetness of a rose field and the sharp smell of spearmint that seeped from the criminal’s smirk. Sherlock swallowed, trying to gain some composure, the smell of the criminal overwhelming all his wrath and resentment that he had for him._

_Sherlock breathed hard, eyes fixated on the criminal in front of him, “Where-“_

_Sherlock cut off, shaking his head slightly, attempting to find some oxygen. He looked on at Moriarty, and still, all he could do was smirk. His eyes black, completely black, absorbing everything the detective left behind and looking into every door he left open._

_“Where have you been?” Sherlock lowly asked, eyes never daring to leave his._

_The criminal continued to smirk, not even a word of a response. It made a burning pulse rise again from the detective. That smirk, always that fucking smirk. Every fucking time._

_“WHERE. HAVE. YOU. BEEN?” Sherlock shouted into the criminal’s face, slamming him against the wall each time he screamed a word._

_The criminal breathed hard along with the detective, the wind being knocked out of him. And even though the bones of the criminal now ached from the shock slams on them, he still managed to form a grin like it was a permant feature of the criminal. Maybe it was._

_“I… I…” Sherlock faltered, looking down at the very slight gap between both their bodies. He couldn’t form the words, the words he knew Moriarty wanted him to cough up. He never released the tight hold on the criminal, keeping him firmly between him and the wall, a place Sherlock always wanted him._

_“Say it.” Moriarty lowly answered back, his head leaning slightly towards the detective’s who’s eyes were gazing towards the floor._

_“SAY IT.” The criminal shouted, causing the detective to breath quicker._

_Sherlock raised his head, his eyes fixed on the criminal whose smirk had disappeared. Just a straight face with a crackling passion under the surface. His eyes staring at the aqua swarmed eyes that were staring straight back at his black holes. Eyes that the detective could lose himself in for hours, even light years._

_Sherlock swallowed hard, his chest rising fast once again, “I need you.”_

_“Looooouder.” Moriarty growled, spearmint circulating into the minor space between them._

_“I NEED YOU.” Sherlock shouted back, breaking at every single letter he spelled out into words. He did need him, he was a mess, an addict, everything he didn’t want to be._

_“Yes, yes you fucking do. I keep you on the straight and narrow. I keep you away from those demons that have haunted you every, single, day, of, your, LIFE,” Moriarty growled at the detective, “You need me, or you are nothing. I am your virus, Sherlock, but I am a good one. You will always need me, always.”_

_Sherlock stared back at the man who growled like a tiger. His eyes fixed on his criminal and he was correct. Moriarty made him the man he is today. He would be nothing without him, just a lonely unconscious soul that removed himself from everything that makes him tick. James Moriarty is his addiction, he always has been and he will forever will be. He kept him away from the drugs and lies, away from all things he completely despises. He needs him to be Sherlock Holmes, the man beneath the hat._

_The heat that glowed from both men became stronger every second Sherlock held him against the wall and clasped between his body. Sherlock readjusted his grip on the front folds of the criminal’s suit. Sherlock couldn’t go through those five stressful hours ever again because next time, it would kill him._

_Sherlock swallowed hard once again, his eyes drifting into the criminals again. The smirk slightly making its way back on to his lips._

_“You’re dying to say it, Sherlock. Come on, tell daddy what you want.” Moriarty lilted, leaning his head slightly back, gazing at the detective._

_Sherlock sighed, eyes looking anywhere but the criminal, “Don’t leave again.”_

_“Ah ah ah, Sherlock. You know the wordsssss.” Moriarty hissed._

_“You know what I want, you know what I need.” Sherlock spat, head raising to the criminal, eyes narrowed._

_Moriarty moved closer to the detective, his lips inches from his. Sherlock let out a shaky breath, gazing back at the man._

_“Just those little words, detective. Those riddles on my lips will forever be imprinted into its creases.” Moriarty whispered, spearmint overwhelming the detective._

_That was enough to spur on Sherlock. Those riddles and that smell that lingered around them like a cloud of smoke that he set alight._

_“Please...don’t leave me, James. I need you.” Sherlock whispered, surrendering to the man he had in his grasps, unable to escape._

_Moriarty smiled at the detective and for a split second…it looked genuine. Any other person would have missed it but not the detective. It was a smile he had never seen from the criminal and it made him tremor at the fact that begging could make the dark man smile the lightest of beams._

_Moriarty’s hands grasped the front edging of Sherlock’s coat that sat at his hips. He pulled the detective forward into his body and a groan left both men. A groan of craved touch and shameless need, even from the criminal. Sherlock still had a grip of the criminal, afraid that if he ever dared to let go then he would slip away._

_“Why would I do that when I can have you any way I want?” Moriarty lowly whispered, keeping Sherlock close._

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes, pushing himself slightly more into him. Moriarty was rolling the dice, he always did but in the strangest and most surrendering way, Sherlock always let him because he couldn’t bear the thought of it any other way._

_“You are mine, Holmes. I can do anything to you and you’d beg for more. You begged for me when I wasn’t here. You will always be mine. Burning the heart out of you? Please…that was soooooo three years ago.” Moriarty lilted, that thick Irish accent of his messing with his senses._

_Both the criminal and detective stayed in the same position. Both of their bodies relaxing into the other, both grasps still locked into place. Their eyes never leaving one another. They had the most intimate connection without a sexual touch or word. They had a bond that no other person could understand. Neither could survive without the other…_

_Neither could survive without the other._

_Moriarty couldn’t stay away from the detective and Sherlock couldn’t stay away from the criminal. They always got pulled back to each other no matter what the other one was doing. Everything about the criminal was captivating, everything he wanted to explore and study. The levels to him, what made him the way he is, why he seals all emotions quite like himself._

_Both men sighed, Sherlock’s a much deeper sigh than the criminals. Moriarty stayed where he was, keeping Sherlock close. He knew the detective needed it. To be close to him, to make sure he was here._

_“Promise me?” Sherlock begged, blue eyes wide, searching the criminals._

_Moriarty laughed once, looking away slightly before his eyes fell back on Sherlock, “I will never stoop so low."_

_Sherlock shoved the criminal against the wall again causing Moriarty to smirk again, eyes wide, dark and locked._

_“PROMISE ME." Sherlock growled as dark as Moriarty._

_“When did you become so ordinary?” Moriarty distastefully spat._

_“PROMISE ME! BE THE ONLY PERSON TO PROMISE ME SOMETHING.” Sherlock begged, a childhood fear surfacing into the fully grown man._

_Moriarty looked on at the detective, desperate for a promise, a promise he had never had. It saddened the criminal slightly. The fact the man in front of him was more fragile than he expected was unexpected but slightly intriguing. He couldn’t deny Sherlock that. He wasn’t that type of man._

_Sherlock looked on at the man before him who seemed to be analysing him. It unsteadied him but at the same time there was something quite beautiful in that moment._

_“I promise, Sherlock Holmes. With all my black heart."_

_Sherlock gasped, the words that left James Moriarty’s mouth caught him by surprise. The fact the criminal promised the man he had been trying to kill for years that he would never leave him again was some type of unprecedented dream he couldn’t believe was happening. Sherlock was so drawn to the man before him. They were two men, two opposite poles. But they were the same, with the same magnificence._

_And just when Sherlock started to feel at home, he began to drift away from the criminal who just watched on with a smirk and a lick of the lips._

 

\--

 

Coldness was something the detective didn’t feel but when he began to wake on the floor of his sitting room, he was extremely cold. It didn’t occur to him instantly why he was cold but when he pushed himself up, sat cross legged and began shaking it became apparent why.

Drugs. Heroin. Withdrawal was the worst part of substance abuse but in this case it was entirely worth it. As he sat among the coldness that surrounded him, the warm heat that sat in his chest was back. James was sat behind his lungs, sat among the smoke in his Westwood suit and Gucci shoes.

_"If you take drugs again, Sherlock, don’t expect to come out of your mind palace."_

Sherlock smiled slightly, talking into the empty space, “Is that a promise?” 

_“No, it’s a statement of credence.”_

“Shame.” Sherlock shrugged, the cold becoming unbearable against his uncovered skin. And then the heat from Moriarty became larger and much more prominent. He was trying to keep him warm. Was James trying to be kind or was he trying to distract the detective? The latter seemed more believable even though...

“ _Take a shower, you absolutely reek of drugs and filth. I can’t stand to be seen with an unclean man."_ Moriarty spoke with disgust. The heat still pouring from him.

“I don’t need you mothering me.” Sherlock uttered back as he stood and made his way to the bathroom for a warm and cleansing shower.

_“Stop your whining. You underestimate the power of a shower and the effects it has on the human body.”_

Sherlock clicked the shower on keeping his clothes on until the hot water poured from the shower head, “You underestimate the power of silence.” Sherlock joked.

_“I don’t take insolence well, Sherlock.”_

“Says the man who makes it seep out of him like some form of Tourette’s.” Sherlock chuckled, stripping himself of his clothes.

It was a strange feeling, the man he calls his nemesis watching him undress from his mind palace. Even though he wasn’t with the detective physically it was a strange sensation and the detective all of sudden felt quite shy. 

_“That is completely different. I find pleasure in being impertinent. I like to watch people burn under just words, not actions. Besides, ordinary people deserve it for being so predictable.”_

“Does that include me? Or am I excused from your impertinence?” Sherlock asked, as he stepped into the hot water, a large and heavy sigh escaped his lips, the heat spilling over every inch of him.

_“Don’t be so full of yourself. You’re the first in line."_

“I feel special now.” Sherlock smiled, the hot water making him sleepy every second he stayed.

 _“Yes, you’re definitely that, Sherlock."_ Moriarty chuckled, his mind wandering slightly.

Sherlock could feel Moriarty focusing on his reaction to the water. The feeling of calmness, sleepiness and peace. He could feel Moriarty smirking slightly. It made the detective shiver hard. Why did the criminal have this effect on him?

He washed himself, trying to wash away the drugs in his system. Moriarty remained silent for the rest of the duration, the heat he let settle into Sherlock’s chest now a glowing, warm passion. It felt like how the heat from someone sleeping next to you would rise to you. It was comforting, it was home.

Sherlock wrapped two towels around him, trying to keep all that warmth he gained in the shower circled around him. He took himself and then man sat within his lungs to the bedroom. He sat on the bed, pulling on some pants, a pair of pyjama bottoms and top before climbing into the sheets that looked and felt like he was on a cloud. Oh, it was the most delightful feeling.

“James?” Sherlock called, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.

_“What? What is it now?”_

“Why did you leave?” Sherlock asked.

_“To teach you a lesson, make you realise you can’t survive without me.”_

“No, I mean, on the rooftop at Barts?” Sherlock explained.

There was a long silence from the man behind his lungs. It was like waiting for something that was not going to arrive. He remained silent. No response to quite a simple question. It didn’t need much thought. Just a few words would have done. But the criminal didn’t respond. Sherlock furrowed his brow. Why hasn’t answered yet? What is he hiding?

_“Go to sleep, Sherlock. Sleep is best for withdrawal.”_

“What is your answer?” Sherlock pushed, the question becoming a problem.

_“I am not real, Sherlock. You’re asking the wrong Moriarty.”_

“But you’re my Moriarty. I know that you know the reason otherwise you wouldn’t have hesitated. It doesn’t bother me what reason it was for.” Sherlock reassured.

_“Go to sleep. Your body is crying out for it and so am I.”_

“Promise to tell me another day?” Sherlock begged, settling into the fabrics of his bed.

Moriarty chuckled before he let the warm heat settle across the detective to make him sleepy, _“Don’t be so ordinary."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, to you all for reading my wacky story. Words can not explain how grateful I am for all your kind words and support. Let's hope you stay with me for the rest. Thank you all so very much xo


	19. Low (Part 2)

19\. Low (Part 2)  
\- All you ever wanted was love, but you never looked hard enough.

In the hush of 221B was peace and calm. Something the consulting detective had craved for what seemed to be a century and a day. As human beings, it is seen as if we underestimate the power of silence. Everyone needs a bit of peace even if it’s in the warmth of your own four walls, in the centre of a wood or at the top of a hill in the middle of the countryside. That silence, that comforting calmness that washes over you is what we need to clear those toxins away, to breathe a slice of better oxygen. 

For Sherlock, the quietness in his flat was delightful. The criminal he always had with him was gently flooding warmth across his chest, a feeling the detective couldn’t get enough of. With his fingers in a steeple formation underneath his chin, his mind wandered to John. Strangely, it felt odd to think about his best friend in such a craved way. The fact that the doctor declared he wouldn’t be anywhere near Sherlock until he got rid of the thing that turned him to his occurring demon, a demon Sherlock shall never be able to bury in the sand and cover it with pebbles. And then there was this other demon…but was he a demon or an angel? Even though he was the worst type of addiction there was outstanding indications that Moriarty was a man that made him a better person. 

Moriarty kept him on the straight and narrow, away from those demons that have haunted him his whole life. Sherlock sighed heavily, Moriarty making his heart beat a few seconds faster than his normal resting heart rate, the heat lightly burning into his bones, an imprint.

The peace in 221B was disturbed by gentle footsteps making their way up the stairs. They were a woman’s footsteps, steps with precision and a gentle tendency. They were moving at quite a slow pace, the steps being delayed slightly like they can’t see where they are stepping. So, something is blocking their vision, maybe a bag, or their stomach but more likely a tray…oh.

Mrs Hudson knocked on the open sitting room door, eyes wandering to Sherlock sat in his grey leather chair, fingers still in a steeple formation. 

“I brought you up a pot of tea, it’s a cold bitter day so make sure you wrap up warm, Sherlock Holmes.” Mrs Hudson gently spoke, pouring the hot scented English tea into a cup.

Sherlock didn’t respond, not even making an attempt to move to get the cup of tea. A cup of tea he desperately wanted. He kept his eyes shut, trying to focus on the heat the criminal was flooding over him.

Mrs Hudson looked towards the tall but fragile man in his chair, a sad smile falling over her. She felt like she was the only one who truly knew how delicate the man who acted like a heartless human was. She knew the detective’s past, she knew most of his fears and how he can’t fight them.

“Oh Sherlock,” she uttered as she made her way to sit in John’s chair.

The detective sighed, trying to defuse the situation at hand but failing miserably.

“Talk to John, you know he is useless without you.” Mrs Hudson joked, trying to lighten the detective.

“He made his feelings perfectly clear about me and everything that I am.” Sherlock gently snapped, the bitter feelings towards John and not the gentle lady in front of him.

Mrs Hudson smiled at Sherlock, “You know he doesn’t mean it. How many times have you fell out over silly things? He forgave you for faking your death, Sherlock darling. Of course he will forgive you again, you have just to prove that you are the friend he needs.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat placing his hands on the arms of his chair. He traced his fingers over the seams of the leather arms, focusing on his tracing rather than the kind woman in front of him.

“Mrs Hudson…do you think I am dangerous man? Am…a-am I too full of myself, or to a certain extent daring or even smug?” Sherlock quietly spoke, feeling rather small.

The small lady smiled, a smile kinder and wiser than any Sherlock had ever witnessed. She stood, gently stepping across the small gap to the detective. She placed her hands on top of his and crouched slightly, before making a loving glare at the detective. His eyes looked right back at her, a sad smile painted to his face.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are the man who saved my life in so many ways. You’re a man who would go to hell and back to protect the people you love. You are a benevolent, gentle, humble and gracious man. The most human out of all of us. So, no Sherlock, you are none of those things. Be brave, my darling Sherlock.” She gently reassured Sherlock before placing a lingering kiss to his forehead.

The landlady began to make her way out of the sitting room and to Sherlock’s relief. The detective swallowed hard, letting his eyes slip shut at the most kind words he had ever heard from someone. Sure his parents said gentle words to him as a child but not for many years and he didn’t want to hear it from his tireless parents. The fact the woman he considered to be his mother in such the kindest of ways made Sherlock feel so warm. Not only because of the heat Moriarty was giving out but because of the honesty that flooded out of Mrs Hudson’s eyes and mouth when she spoke those compassionate words to him. 

“Don’t let that tea go cold, Sherlock Holmes otherwise I will be putting it on your rent young man.” She stated as she walked out of the room before taking the stairs.

Sherlock chuckled to himself at her words, letting the previous words sink into his bones. He stood before making his way to the table where the cup of tea was steaming away. He poured the milk into the tea, just enough to keep it strong. Milky tea is the most un-British thing. It ate at the detective at how anyone could have a cup of tea that is weak.

 _“I miss having tea parties with you. Oh how much fun we had.”_ Moriarty tittered, a sad wave flushing over him.

Sherlock laughed, “Such a British way of having a profound conversation; having a tea party with your nemesis.”

_“Is that what I have been reduced to? Your nemesis? I am highly offended.”_

“Then what would you like me to refer you as? A wolf? An Irish leprechaun? Short arse?” Sherlock joshed, stirring the milk into the tea with meticulousness and care.

 _“Do you like dancing on a wire, Holmes? Because I can elucidate that it’s more like a single thread.”_ Moriarty warned, pouting with his eyes closed, a little tantrum developing.

“Are you always going to make threats without following them through? That isn’t the man I know and respect.” Sherlock stated, a smirk developing.

 _“Now, now, Sherlock you’ll make me blush if you carry on talking like that.”_ Moriarty smiled.

“I thought that is what the sentimental do. Blush and frantically try to impress the other.” Sherlock uttered, heart rate raising slightly. Was that what he was trying to do with Moriarty? The detective raised the hot cup of tea to his lips, trying to out steam the thought.

 _“Are you lowering me to the level you have reduced yourself to?”_ Moriarty smirked. 

Sherlock paused, holding the cup against his lips. His mouth opened slightly, ready to respond to the criminal but his mind somehow couldn’t form the words he needed. He was a wreck under the criminal. When Jim was alive it was bad, he always gave into him, let him win because Sherlock didn’t know any better. But the Moriarty he had built for himself was worse. Everything about him was written deep into the biology of the detective. It was strange. It was beautiful.

The criminal, waited patiently for the detective to respond. Jim knew he had caught him in ways that even chemistry couldn’t explain, but the flirting disguised a deep fault in both men.

“I am only human.” Sherlock lowly responded, placing the tea cup in to its saucer.

Moriarty laughed, _“And here I was thinking that you were an alien.”_

“Stop.” Sherlock breathed, eyes closing.

The criminal stood, furrowing his brow at how sensitive Sherlock was at the words he just spoke.

Sherlock held the table, trying to ignore the words the criminal just said. Words that haunted his childhood, words that haunted his everyday. Then Sherlock focused on the criminal, his eyes soft, trying to reach out to the detective.

_“Come here.”_

Sherlock tightly pressed his eyes together, trying to prevent himself to fall for those words. He exhaled, holding the table just as tightly, “No, I have stuff to do. I have a case to solve.”

_“Now.”_

“No.”

_“Sherlock.”_

“Stop. Just stop.” Sherlock begged, the criminal pulling his senses slightly, starting to feel slightly unbalanced. If he didn’t go then the criminal would just pull him back.

 _“You’ve still got heroin in your bloodstream. Do you really think you’re capable of solving a case, detective?”_ Morairty questioned, hands in pockets.

“I am fine. I can function properly with any substance in my veins. I am never fully clean.” Sherlock spat, taking the tea cup and placing to his lips again.

Moriarty closed his eyes, disappointment flooding over him, _“Of all things to be hooked on and you choose drugs to hide away those sentimental fears.”_

Sherlock swallowed hard, keeping the cup close to his lips, “Would you love me the same if I wasn’t the way I am?”

The detective paused, staring into the tea cup. _Love._ The thought of such a word felt wrong falling from his lips. Just a sentimental default that is written in the biology of every person on the planet. The detective had never used the word _love_ in such a sentimental way before even though he was asking another person. But…would Moriarty love him the same if he wasn’t? Was the man capable of love? Where either them capable of love?

There was a long silence from the criminal, just like the silence held in the darkness on the moon. Just a shining light with no voice. The thought that James had to mull over his response screamed through the silence that seeped through the gap between both men. 

Jim Moriarty swallowed hard, the words caught in his throat, _“I think you know the answer to that.”_

Sherlock gasped slightly, the warmth that flooded from the criminal overwhelming all his senses. There were so many riddles to that sentence. Too many. The criminal mumbled to himself stomping his way back to where he was sat previously. He was slightly frustrated at the path the conversation rolled down. The detective could tell how uncomfortable James became on sentimental matters. Something the detective wanted to carve out of him like an archaeologist. 

The detective cleared his throat, trying to diffuse the sour mood Moriarty had dug himself into, “The sentimental would rather flirt and act like a love fool.”

 _“No, detective. The sentimental would rather carve their names into one another and declare a sentimental value that never seems to stick in the ordinary.”_ The criminal answered, rolling his eyes at the thought.

Sherlock paused, eyes widening. Oh. Oh!

“HOW could I be so STUPID?!” Sherlock shouted to himself, “Of course Arthur didn’t do it. Oh why would he? When the prize he wants he can’t even have.”

_“What are you rambling on about?”_

“Mary, James!” Sherlock exclaimed to Moriarty, “It’s all about her, all of it!”

_“The cousin?”_

“Yes! Oh I need John to clarify the theory. He spoke to the maid on call that night. Oh this is brilliant!”

 _“Always the pet that saves you, isn’t it?”_ Moriarty bitterly snapped.

Sherlock paused by the door at his words, placing his coat and scarf on, “No, you always do. He saves me physically but you have to save yourself mentally first, from all that haunts your every step. And that is all you.”

The criminal didn’t respond, a silence spreading over him. Sherlock knew those words would settle his criminal even though every single word was true.

Sherlock cleared his throat, tying his scarf, “Come on, the game is on!”

\--

 

“John!”

“John!”

“Johhhhhnnnnnn!”

Sherlock slammed against the front door of the house which was John and Mary Watsons. To anyone else it would sound like one child trying to get the other child to come out and play which in this case, was true.

“Alright, alright we’re coming!” A soft voice came from the other side of the door. A slim, blonde headed figure unlocking the door from the other side of the misted glass. 

Mary opened the door, a smile immediately struck her face when she caught sight of the curly haired detective. 

“Oh! Hey Sher-“

The detective barged passed the blonde like he was escaping the police which to Mary’s amusement wouldn’t surprise her. She closed the door following the detective.

“It’s her, it’s all about her!” Sherlock shouted into the opened planned front room.

Mary smiled, “Who?”

Sherlock quickly turned to face the new mum, “Mary!”

The ex-assassin furrowed her eyebrows, arms crossed against her chest, “The cousin?”

The detective paced the living room, “Why would both Arthur and Mary lie about an incident which they are both innocent of?”

“To cover for someone else.” Mary clarified.

“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed, still pacing the room like a mad man.

“What’s all the noise?” John spoke into the living room, coming to a halt by the kitchen door when he caught the sight of Sherlock. 

The face that was painted on the army doctor’s face was one of not shock but annoyance. There was an awkward silence in the room, a silence that all three of the souls in the room could not stand.

Mary brushed past Sherlock towards her husband, “Oh for goodness sake John look at him!” she uttered placing her hands on his cheeks, “He is our second child, so help him become a better man just the way you made me a better person.”

John looked away from Mary his eyes falling on the detective who in all honesty looked like a lost child in a big coat.

“He is a drug addict.” John whispered, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.

Mary pulled the army doctor’s head slightly to look straight back at her, “And I am an assassin.”

The words that spilled from Mary were of love and kindness. John Watson made her a better person, a wiser person. She is an assassin and he still loves her the same. Sherlock is a drug user, and he should love him the same. In that moment, baby Amelia began crying from the kitchen, all three of them looking to the kitchen before eyes fell back on John.

“Be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The heroes I know you are.” She smiled, kissing his forehead before departing the room to tend to Amelia.

Moriarty released a warm heat letting it flood across the detective. It was a sign that he was always here, that he promised to never leave him. The criminal understood the detective more than anyone in the room. Sherlock smiled slightly at the kind gesture from the criminal.

John stood with his hands in fists to the sides of him where as the detective had his hands behind him, looking to the floor just like a child would do when he is in trouble.

“John… I um… I am sorry for last night.” Sherlock stammered, eyes focused on the floor.

The doctor sighed, looking away slightly before soft eyes fell on the detective, “Why did you do it?”

Sherlock paused, mouth open slightly, his mouth working two times faster than his brain. He couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t say the truth. That he has a mind palace Moriarty who he needs at all times to function and not feel alone intellectually. 

“I just needed someone. I felt… alone.” Sherlock muttered, swallowing hard.

John stepped closer, another hard sigh seeping from his lips, “You have me, Sherlock.”

“And you have Mary.”

The detective smiled sadly at the doctor. The sad smile was reciprocated from the doctor. A warmth sat in the room, a sort of understanding between both men. Sherlock and John didn’t need to speak wonders for them to understand the other. They were like a song, the melody meant more to them both than the lyrics. They both made each other better. Whereas Moriarty made the detective mentally stable.

“So, what are you here for?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled, “Arthur Holder.”

And on just those two simple words, both men headed for the door with a new agenda and understanding.

 

\--

 

“Lucy Parr?” Sherlock asked, stepping towards the girl sat on the bench eating her lunch. 

She gazed at Sherlock, a mouth full of food, “Yeah?”

The detective held out his hand towards the girl, a smirk on his face, “Sherlock Holmes.”

She raised her hand and gave a hard hand shake, looking to the tall man before John appeared to the side of the detective.

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d get him on to me.” She joked, looking towards John who smiled back.

 _“Haven’t you worked it out yet?”_ Moriarty smirked, teasing the detective.

“Shut up.” Sherlock muttered under his breath, eyes closed at the distracting warmth flooding from the criminal.

_“Now, now, impoliteness won’t get you anywhere."_

The detective sat down next to the small built strawberry blonde, eyes fixed on her. He tried to ignore Morairty who was succeeding at distracting him from the matter at hand.

The criminal always had a way of dragging everything back to himself. Creating a heat that the detective groaned at and sighed heavily towards. The affect the criminal had on him was repulsive, an enigmatic pulse of lust for him. The pulse always came at the wrong time, the wrong moments and that was all James Moriarty’s doing. He teased and pulled the detective in directions that only obsession could define. The detective cleared his throat, hoping that would shift the pining he has for the criminal.

Lucy held one key answer, something the detective was going to get out of her at all costs.

“Three nights ago you were the maid on duty. You deep cleaned the second reception, not particularly paying attention to your surroundings and the movements in the house until you heard voices, precisely two from Holder’s office. The two voices were deep so we are looking at two men. You quite confidentially stated that one voice was Arthur but you wasn’t quite sure whose the other voice belonged to. You carried on with your duties until a few minutes later you were called into Holder’s office. You attended to Mary who had misleadingly fainted. You caught the sight of two other men, them being Arthur and Holder himself. You confidentially specified that no one else was in the room. Are you entirely and completely sure?”

Lucy narrowed her eyes at the detective, a huff escaping her lips, “What? Of course I am! I’m not like the other morons who work here. I know what I saw.”

“So what did you see that was untoward?” Sherlock questioned.

She raised her hands, “I don’t know, I don’t remember! I saw a sparkly item in Arthur’s hands, Holder checking his safe… papers all over the floor, shouting from Holder, Mary on the-“

“No… No. Wait a minute you said, papers on the floor?” Sherlock smiled, standing from the bench before sprinting away from both Lucy and John and down the path to the right of the bench. 

John followed the detective, confused at what the detective had realised.

“Is that it?” Lucy shouted to the two men as John made his way around the corner of the brick wall and down to the path along the side of the back wall of the house. Sherlock was 10 metres up the path, stood in the plant beds below the large bay windows. The doctor caught up and came to a halt by the detective, breathing heavily.

“What? What is it?” John heavily breathed, hands on hips.

“Look, John. Look!” The detective exclaimed pointing towards the soil in the bed plant.

The doctor leant slightly, searching the plant bed. Footprints. Large footprints. Footprints harshly indented into the mud, flowers and plants trampled by the detective and whosever footprints they were.

“Footprints.”

“Exactly! Papers on the floor? Holder is a smart, clean and tidy man. Appearance means everything to that man. He would never leave papers on the floor. Those papers have client’s details on, bank details, numbers and addresses. He wouldn’t be so careless. There was another man there with Arthur!” Sherlock smiled, hands in a steeple formation under his chin.

“Man?” John questioned.

Sherlock paused, looking to the doctor, “Yes man, John. Look at the size of the footprint. This isn’t a woman, it’s a man.” He stated as he stepped out of the plant bed, “The voices that Lucy heard were two men’s voices. One of them being Arthur. Whoever was in the office with Arthur made a run for it out of the bay window. The force in which the windows opened caused the papers on Holder’s desk to flutter on to the floor.”

 _“Attaboy.”_ Moriarty lilted from the smoke, smirking at nothing in particular.

“That means Arthur lied. He said no one was with him.” John replied.

_“Well done, pet. You’re sluggishly improving somewhat.”_

Sherlock tried to ignore the criminal, a small smile developing at his flirting, “Why would you lie about who was with you?”

John paused, “To cover for someone else.”

Sherlock nodded, the case slowly coming together. Arthur has been lying through his back teeth. Covering for the only person he could have the courage to cover for. It was obvious. 

“The bike tracks in the drive, the footprints in the plant bed, and the voices, the bench… It all makes sense.”

“Yep,” John nodded, before hesitating looking to the detective, “What?”

“Mary has an admirer.” Sherlock smiled, before making his way back down the path with John. 

James Moriarty smirked against the detective’s chest, only for Sherlock to shyly bite his lip at the criminal and all his flirtatious wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update lads! Unfortunately life gets in the way. I hope it was worth the wait! Everything, all the secrets in The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet and the back plots are coming together now, can you guess what's going to happen? ;) xo


	20. Eventually

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY. I am awfully sorry that it has taken me so long to upload this chapter. I hit a writers wall and was quite stuck on how to write this chapter. But here it is for you! I hope it is worth the wait and you can forgive me! Enjoy!

20\. Eventually  
\- If only there could be another way to do this, cause it feels like murder.

The way the detective slammed the door of the first reception room open was enough to awaken a lost shadow in your step. And as the eyes of the detective searched the room, he found the people who had the truth to spill. A smug grin graced Sherlock’s face as he leaped into the room.

Arthur and Mary both sat opposite sides of the room, heads snapping and eyes falling on the detective as he disturbed the warmth of the room. Guilt wrapped in paraphernalia, a biology that sunk into the fabrics of the room.

Arthur slammed his book shut, before curtly pulling his suit down. He headed for the exit only for John Watson to walk around the door, eyes widening when he caught Arthur in his path.

“Ah, no you don’t.” The doctor said, as he pushed the young boy back into the room.

Arthur loudly huffed, only for Mary to roll her eyes, “Let go of me! Let go of me I say!”

“Arthur I’d suggest you sit down and pucker up because you’re going to need all your strength for this.” Sherlock smugly answered, sarcastically smiling at the young boy.

He roughly pulled himself away from the army doctor, eyee locked on the detective who stood in front of the fire, keeping all the warmth against his back. The warmth pouring from the fire collided with the heat that burned against the front of his chest from the criminal who sat smirking at the detective, trying to distract him from all of reality and its heartache. And to Sherlock’s shyness, Moriarty was succeeding. 

“WHAT IS ALL THIS NOISE?” A strong voice bellowed from the hallway, only for Alexander Holder to step into the reception room doorway as his eyes narrowly glanced at the souls in the room.

“Perfect.” Sherlock smiled, “John, the door.”

The army doctor stood at the back of the room, guarding the door. The chest of the doctor puffed out so far it was as if he had never lost a war. Holder stared at the curly haired man who was holding him and his family as prisoners in his own home.

He sadistically smiled at the detective, “Mr Holmes, you better have a virtuous reason for keeping a man like me held hostage in my home.”

“Mr Holder, I think you better take a seat. The next few minutes may come as a shock to you because you were absolutely right.” Sherlock beamed, hands behind his back. 

Holder titled his head to the side, his hands falling behind his back, mirroring Sherlock's actions, “I’m not normally wrong about my deductions, Mr Holmes. I am glad we came to an agreement.”

“You hit the nail on the head with this one, Mr Holder because you’re family,” Sherlock playfully pointed towards Mary and Arthur, “have been lying to you, in plain sight. I am thoroughly disappointed that it has taken me this long to actually see the obvious.”

Holder snapped his head to his son and Mary, only for the children to turn their heads away from the vicious scowl that soared across the room. The banker huffed, turning back to the detective, “That’s ridiculous!”

“Oh but it isn’t,” Sherlock softly spoke, “Arthur, why did you get up in the middle of the night to go to your fathers office?”

The young man shuffled nervously, looking on at all the faces in the room, “I wanted to see the Coronet.”

“No.” Sherlock snapped.

“It’s the truth.” Arthur stated.

_“Why does he even bother lying? He can’t lie to save his life. Go on, darling, show him what you are made of.”_

Sherlock shyly smiled inwardly at the criminal egging him on to do his magic tricks. The funny thing about it was that Sherlock was wearing black and white. He giggled under his breath, he really did look like a wand.

“What time did you arrive home on the night the incident happened, Mary?” Sherlock questioned the young girl.

“Oh, um, well about nine,” She muttered, shrugging her shoulders.

“No. You arrived home later than that because you woke Arthur from his slumber.” Sherlock stated casually, like he was reading from a script.

Mary laughed eyes scanning Arthur briefly before looking back at Sherlock, “No I didn’t.”

“But you did. You returned home around 3:30 in the morning from being out most of the day. You stepped into the building knowing that everyone would be asleep and the maid on call would be deep cleaning so you could return home unnoticed like you hadn’t even left the building. But just before you ascended the stairs you heard a strange and uncomforting noise from Holder’s office but because you were afraid and unsure of what was happening you woke Arthur up to check the office.” Sherlock said, eyes falling on the young man.

“I did no such thing!” Mary exclaimed, eyes on the detective.

“And how could Arthur say no to his cousin? So he descends the stairs and enters his father’s office only to find a stranger opening his father’s safe.”

Arthur remained silent, eyes focused on the floor, trying to avoid his father whose eyes were pinned on him. Sherlock smiled softly, focused on the beautifully crafted wooden table in front of him.

“But there was one thing I couldn’t get my head around, why both of you were so determined to lie about what happened that night? You’re both smart, wide eyed teenagers. You don’t lie especially not to your father but both you had to because he was no stranger was he? The man who was attempting to steal the Coronet?” Sherlock sadly clarified.

Mary closed her eyes, a sigh leaving her lips. Arthur retained his eyes on the cream carpeted floor. The only man who was thoroughly focused on a living soul in the room was Holder. He was locked on the detective, head titled to the left, waiting for the next blow to come from across the room.

Sherlock glanced to Holder, “Lucy Parr, your first maid on the night the damage was done to the coronet told John there was rumour that someone had an admirer… a boy-“

“ALRIGHT!” Mary shouted, standing, hands held up in a surrendering manner, “Alright. It was my boyfriend, ok? Happy now?” She snapped to the detective.

Holder stalked over to the young girl, “WHAT? A boyfriend?! You have got to be joking. No, no Mary you stop seeing him right now. How dare you! How dare-“

“QUIET.” Sherlock shouted into the open room, all eyes on the room falling on him, “You can carry your family domestic once John and I have departed. Families are complicated and tainted, especially from the outlook of strangers.”

Holder snapped to the detective, “Well, you better have tremendous evidence for these assumptions, Mr Holmes.”

“Oh, but he does.” John called from the back of the room, stepping forward out from the shadows, “The large bay windows outside your office has flower beds below it.”

“And?” Holder spat.

“There are footprints. Still freshly imprinted into the soil. No rain, no wind to re-shuffle the soil. Large footprints, size 10 to be exact. They were the marks of army boots or similar to the sort. And,” John titled his head to both men, “Neither of you would own boots like that.”

Holder laughed pointing to the doctor, “They could be someone’s who works here shoes, even a woman’s.”

“No.” Sherlock stated, “It is quite clear that your staff are to wear black tailor made shoes or heels. I checked with your staff. Plus, size 10? Come on, not many women have size 10 feet. Your gardener is even out of the equation.”

Sherlock paced the fireplace, an odd silence settling into the fabrics of the room.

“Is that all you got it from? Footprints?” Holder chuckled, his arms folding. 

“Bike tracks. Not a single person from your staff arrives on a bicycle. Bike tracks indented into the soft pale coloured drive. Precisely it was a Rockefeller 21 Speed with 50mm tyres. It had be an outsider and none of your clients arrive on bicycle.” Sherlock clarified, coming to a deduction halt by Mary.

 _“Oh detective, that is impressive. Would you know the brand of the blade that slices your skin if you’d let me?”_ Moriarty darkly smiled, a flick knife balancing within his fingers.

Sherlock gasped inwardly, the words that rolled out of the criminal’s mouth were so inviting, so beautifully flawed and mysterious that it took all the strength he had to not escape to his mind palace right there. He pushed the urge aside, an overwhelming heat crossed his veins as the criminal enticed Sherlock to his paraphernalia wrapped wonders.

The young blonde headed girl glanced up to the overpowering detective, “What?”

“What are your initial’s?” Sherlock asked, eyes never leaving hers.

“MH… Why?”

Sherlock smiled, walking away, “MH. The initial’s on the bench near the church at Streatham Green are marked GB ‘hearts’ MH. It didn’t occur to me at the time but over a cup of tea this morning it slotted in to the case. I presumed you would have taken your uncle’s surname as you are living with him.”

“Yes, my parents died in a car crash a few years ago. Alexander took me in kindly.” Mary sadly replied, her eyes never leaving the floor. 

The silence in the room thickened while they absorbed the previous few minutes. The case seemed to be solved but there was one thing the detective couldn’t leave to his own mind. The family had a right to know, and Arthur was awfully quiet.

Moriarty chuckled into the chest of the detective making him catch his breath. The criminal patiently waited for his detective and in all honesty, Sherlock was desperate to be with him alone.

“Why did you remove two pearls from the coronet?” Sherlock questioned, turning to the young boy.

Arthur raised his head, “I-I didn’t.”

“What is the point of lying now? It will always confuse why people will lie even though the truth has been spilled. Maybe it is a defect found in the losing side. But you’re more intelligent than this. Straight A’s at school all to lie?” Sherlock softly spoke, trying to persuade the man to tell the truth.

Arthur sighed, “When… Mary asked me to go into my father’s office to see what the strange noise was I found a man, a well-built man removing the coronet from my father’s safe. I… I immediately tackled him for it, I tried to snatch it away from his hands. As I said, he was a largely built man, much stronger than I was that as we were pulling the damn thing between us that it started to bend into an oval shape. He then...”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “Then what?”

Arthur’s eyes fell on his cousin, eyes becoming so soft at the gaze locked between them, “He said he was Mary’s boyfriend.”

“And you couldn’t reveal the actual situation with the coronet because you couldn’t bear the fact of upsetting the only person who means more to you than anyone you know.” Sherlock softly finished for the young man.

Mary looked on at Arthur, tears filling her eyes. This was more complex than Sherlock initial thought. Arthur dug his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out the three pearls he had extracted from the coronet.

Arthur shook his head at Mary, “I couldn’t drop you in it, Mary. So… I went back to my father’s office after we returned back to chambers to remove a few pearls to look more like a damaged item than a scuffle between me and her boyfriend.”

Mary huffed, “Why would you do that? You didn’t have to do that, Arthur. I would have owned up to George trying to steal it if you didn’t tell me to shut up! Why did you do that?!”

“Because I love you!” Arthur quickly answered, eyes never leaving hers.

The blonde headed girl gasped, locked on the young man who had just confessed his love for her. Her own cousin. Holder was the most silent out of the whole room. The turn his family had taken, the path they had taken showed how much his family not only disrespected him but to protect the ones they love.

And to the utter shock to the detective, Moriarty had become oddly silent. The low mumbling or humming from the dark eyed man had come to an abrupt halt. And even though the silence in the distance between Moriarty and himself were great, the heat that poured from the criminal burned a little deeper in his lungs. All this talk of romanticism and sentiment that had spilled in the room made the criminal feel extremely uncomfortable. Sherlock took note, Moriarty letting some true feelings flutter through.

“You did all that to protect Mary because you love her?” John enquired, arms folding across his chest.

“Yes. It was my honour.” Arthur simplified.

“Find the man, Mr Holmes.” Holder lowly stated, glancing to the curly haired man.

Sherlock looked to a stunned Mary, a tear rolling down her cheek, “Name.”

“Um.. G-George Burnwell. Sir, George Burnwell.” She groggily replied, wiping the tear away from her cheek.

“Thank you. John.” Sherlock headed towards the exit, coat flowing behind him, “Mr Holder, I shall contact you once I have located him.”

Both the detective and the doctor departed the silence choked reception room. The tone it had become made the curly haired man shiver. All that lies and depict to protect the ones you love. Do people do that? Is it the normal thing? Sherlock flashed back to when he faked his death to protect John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson but it didn’t occur to the detective that he did out of sentiment, out of love. He always considered it as protection. Is love that easily misunderstood?

Everything about the case, about Moriarty and Sir George Burnwell had a crimpled covered witchcraft spell to it. Was the world really this complex? Was George Burnwell that careless? Was Moriarty really this touchy, this uncomfortable with biological codes? 

Moriarty didn’t respond to Sherlock’s thoughts, instead he let the silence settle among his thoughts and the burning sensation develop into butterflies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIDDLE: Sir George Burnwell is the man we want to find, but will not be able to catch.
> 
> I will let you mull over that. See you at the next chapter! I hope this was worth the wait and leave me comments on what you think is going to happen! (Thank you to all of you have read my fic and have stayed with me this long. It means so much to me. Hopefully I can keep you coming back for more! I love ya all and thank you! xo)


	21. A Different Corner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the feels you may encounter in this chapter.

21\. A Different Corner  
\- I would promise you all of my life but to lose you would cut like a knife, so I don't dare, no I don't dare. 

Butterflies. That’s all that sizzled in the stomach of the consulting detective. His grey leather chair that felt warmer under touch than usual made the burning sensation even more enticing, a crackle troubled shade of amber. The sizzle that fizzled among his body were down to numerous reasons, but in all reality, he was kidding himself.

The case at hand about a young girl with a troubled lover sizzled away at the detective, not because of the pressing matter it had taken on the detective and the doctor, but because it was all too familiar. And the curly haired man couldn’t pin it down. The second reason that crackled in the sociopath’s stomach was the fact that he was waiting anxiously for a call from Scotland Yard. Sir George Burnwell somehow didn’t sound right. Just like when you repeat a word over and over again. In the end, the word doesn’t sound like a word at all. 

And the last reason why butterflies simmered in the abyss of the detective was not a reason at all. He was a mystery darker than any dark energy in the universe. You couldn’t paint the insides of the ocean darker than his eyes. Those warm, soulless and absorbing eyes. If the universe is as bright as the astronomer’s say with trillions upon trillions of stars, then why does someone made of stars have eyes so dark? 

Everything about the man whispered untold secrets and crimson coloured horrors. Horrors darker than any murder mystery you have read within the lines of a television. You could burn within his gaze but the detective was not sure a man with such delicate movements could crease the rain. A man that smelt of roses among a petrol soiled field. The most dangerous amalgamation, the most beguiling wish among a star filled answer machine. A man wrapped in paraphernalia, a man opposite to the heroic saviour.

And he was there, always. Among the bones, among the blood red muscle, among the warmth of the detective. After the visit at the Holders residence the criminal was unsettlingly silent. All that silence enticed the detective to the psychopath more than ever. 

Sherlock sat in his grey leather chair with his fingers in a steeple formation waiting for another soul to enter the room. His eyes were softly closed, focusing on the heat that poured from the criminal. Among all that silence was deeper heat, deeper butterflies, and a deeper passion. 

It seemed as if the detective had a few minutes before someone stepped through the doors of 221B so with the burn on his chest and the pull of the criminal, he gave into him and slipped away to the trouble crafted psychopath.

 

\--

 

_The detective stood several metres behind the criminal and even though that distance was between them, the tension cracked louder than any thunder on Jupiter. All the sociopath was greeted with was the perfectly aligned frame of Moriarty. His dark brown hair pushed back with precision. Not one hair out of place. A dark blue suit clung to his figure impeccably; Westwood measured to the point. Besides all that, the petrol scent that drifted in all directions hit the detective the most. Among the scent were hints of Irish coffee and a smoky trace which he couldn’t quite pinpoint._

_Moriarty stood with his hands deep in his pockets. His body language was incomprehensible. The silence, the posture and the lack of eye contact shrouded everything. It ate at Sherlock and with fluency and delicacy he made his way to the side of the criminal._

_Sherlock stood beside Moriarty, looking out towards what seemed to be a sunset. Once again the criminal seemed to be admiring the sky in such an intimate way. Moriarty’s eyes were locked on the scene in front of him, ignoring the presence of the warm blooded detective who was just a grab of a hand away._

_Sherlock quickly glanced to Moriarty before his eyes focused back on the amber, red and yellow shades in the sky. The criminals face was blank as he faced the sky. No smile, no smirk, no emotion at all. All this silence unnerved the sociopath and in a cry of help he fired up the mysteries that ate away at him for the past few hours._

_His mouth opened but no words formed, the words delayed in his throat. The detective swallowed hard before he mustered the courage to induce the criminal._

_“Silence speaks wonders to the right people.” Sherlock softly uttered, hands behind his back._

_The criminal didn’t reply, not even a movement of a hand. It was as if he couldn’t hear the man who seemed so close but so far. His focus on the sky, not one blink flickering into his eyes._

_Sherlock inhaled loudly, looking around him, “I always considered silence as not only an indicator of careless emotion but also a comfort to those who know no better.”_

_Once again, Moriarty spoke of nothing. Silence and stillness flooding himself wholly. The detective glanced down to the chest of the criminal. He focused on the slow and steady rise and fall of the psychopath’s chest. It was so very calming, too calming. That strong beating heart of his keeping such a dark, mysterious soul alive. His dark mysterious soul. Sherlock swallowed hard once more, eyes once again focusing on the sunset. This was unbearable._

_“Why are you ignoring me? All this silence? All this blanketed expression?” Sherlock anxiously asked, heart beating a little faster._

_There was nothing. Only more silence. More stillness._

_“James?”_

_“Jim?”_

_“JAMES?” Sherlock spat, as he swept in front of the criminal, blocking his view to the sunset. And even though the criminal was now staring at the collarbones of the detective, the silence still blanketed the criminal._

_Sherlock breathed quickly as the anxiety and unnerving emotions that filled him spilled over him. His eyes shifted over the criminal, everything about him was screaming words that didn’t even exist. It infuriated the detective as the anxiety surpassed the whole of him._

_“I have had enough silence from you in reality since the Reichenbach Fall and I do not need more silence from you here in my mind palace as well, James Moriarty.” Sherlock spat into the face of the smaller man._

_And just as the detective thought silence was the way it was going to be from now on, Moriarty turned on his heels and began walking away at a slow and precise pace. A hand left his pocket to rub at what seemed to be his eyes. Sherlock looked on in complete astonishment as the man he called home once again walked away from any mention of The Reichenbach Fall._

_It had been four years. Four fucking years and neither of them could speak of the moment that changed everything forever? Sherlock huffed loudly, a burst of annoyance bubbling to the surface._

_Sherlock hastily trailed, anger spilling over, “Is this how it is always going to be when I mention The Reichenbach Fall? Are you ashamed of what you done?”_

_In a split second, Moriarty snapped around to face Sherlock. His eyes were big, black and insanely psychotic. His jaw was clenched together. The detective thought if he clenched his jaw any tighter that he could have shattered his teeth. Moriarty was not angry, not annoyed; he was a raging storm._

_“Don’t you dare,” he darkly spat, “DON’T YOU DARE.”_

_He stalked over to the detective, he pushed his body into the front of the detective’s. Bodies, minds and eyes colliding violently like two galaxies. Sherlock breathed even harder, looking into the black abyss Moriarty had as eyes._

_“DON’T YOU DARE ASSUME I AM ASHAMED OF MY ACTIONS ON THAT ROOFTOP. DON’T EVEN THINK FOR ONE SECOND THAT I REGRET THE TEARS I SPILT ON TO MY CHEEKS THAT DAY.” Moriarty spat into Sherlock’s face._

_“B-But I thought-“_

_“No, no, Sherlock, you DON’T think. You NEVER think. Silenceeeeee is what keeps me sane, keeps me away from everything I feel as if are MY demons. There are forbidden reasons, reasons that I can’t accept. Reasons why I did what I did that day so don’t think for one second I ashamed because I am not. I am dolorous. I ammmmm… I…”_

_The criminal closed his eyes, a pitiful smile gracing his face. He swallowed just as hard as Sherlock had done previously. The detective stared at the resentful man in front of him. His psychopath, his criminal who was so agitated, so uncomfortable with expressing emotions and the past._

_Sherlock fought the urge to wrap his arms around the smaller man. This was no game, this was no lie. This was the real Moriarty, the emotion filled man. The man who held everything in silence to keep himself afloat, who’s head screamed while to everyone else it seemed like silence. Moriarty was as emotionally unstable as him, as fucked up as him. James Moriarty just had a more beautiful way of hiding it. Behind a smirk and perfectly pinned suit._

_The curly haired man was so deep into his thoughts of the smaller man that he hadn’t even realised that he was walking away from him. Sherlock snapped back, hastily following the criminal._

_“If you’re not ashamed of what you did then why don’t you just tell me? Why don’t you just tell me why you killed yourself? Why you put that bullet through that beautiful brain of yours? Why you left me to face reality by myself?”_

_“TO PROTECT YOU.” Moriarty quickly answered back, snapping around on the spot to face the taller man._

_Sherlock froze, his bones grinding to a halt at the words that flowed from James Moriarty’s tongue. He killed himself to protect him? He took his own life to protect his nemesis? Sherlock’s brain was working overtime. Emotions flooded him while his body tried to absorb the shock it had just been blown._

_The two men, a few metres apart stared at each other, absorbing each other in. It was if Moriarty was drinking Sherlock in whereas the detective just felt like he was melting under that gaze. Is this what they were meant to be? Two fucked up 30 something year olds who need each other to survive? A drug to each other? An addiction?_

_Moriarty’s chest rose and fell rapidly, the quickest the detective had ever seen his chest move. It was if he was holding his own anxiety at bay. His eyes were still big, black and beautiful. Sherlock could have sworn he fell into them a few hundred times and surprisingly survived considering they were like black holes._

_“J-James… I…” Sherlock stuttered holding a hand out to James who seemed so small._

_James looked away for a second, taking a hard swallow. His jaw seemed to be shivering, like he was holding back tears. Could he cry in front of his nemesis? Where they even enemies?_

_“You know,” Moriarty paused, a hand raising and the falling back to his side, “when our lips were so close on that roof top, I could taste everything you were, everything that I wasn’t mean to have. Youuuu… infuriated me. You made me seethe. You made me feel like I was the devil.”_

_Sherlock gasped, taking a step forward only for the criminal to take a step back. James raised his head to the sky, he shook his head, a blue smile gracing his lips._

_“I was a bad man, darling. I was the most notorious, merciless, callous bastard to walk the Earth. And… I still am. But I knew when our lips nearly collided on that rooftop that those flavours you release could never be stolen by me.”_

_The words, the riddles that spilled out of his mouth were so sad, so melancholy that it made Sherlock stop breathing. Everything slotted into place. Why everything between them was tense, so fucked up. He killed himself because he didn’t want to kill Sherlock. He knew that if he kissed Sherlock on the roof top that he would destroy him bit by bit. He would turn into a murderer, a sadistic, heartless bastard just like himself. So he killed himself to prevent himself doing that to him. To protect him and his life._

_Sherlock’s heart kick started again. His aqua blue eyes locked on James Moriarty. He was the only thing he wanted and the thing he always needed, even when he was alive._

_“Y-You killed yourself to protect me? To not let yourself destroy me?” Sherlock asked again, breathing rapidly still._

_Moriarty lowered his eyes slowly, staring into nothing. He nodded, sadness flushing over him._

_Sherlock looked away, pressing his lips together before turning back to the criminal, “Then why did you leave me the other day? Why didn’t you just stay away?”_

_James Moriarty tilted his head to the detective, “Because I saw what I was doing to you when I left you. When I left you to fend for yourself. Without me…you turned into a mess. A mess I couldn’t let happen. Within a few hours you turned to heroin to settle my absence. That is what you have always done haven’t you? You can’t live without me.”_

_“But you can live without me?” Sherlock rapidly replied._

_“We are not talking about me. We are talking about you.”_

_“I know I can’t live without you. I know I am nothing without you and you know that too. You killed yourself so obviously your dead self can live without me.”_

_“I am not real, darling.” Moriarty sadly smiled._

_“I KNOW, BUT YOU,” Sherlock pointed towards the smaller man, “The real you… you are living without me right now.”_

_Moriarty stared at Sherlock, “Do you really think I could live while I knew I couldn’t have you?”_

_“I-I…”_

_James sadly shook his head, “I killed myself not only to protect you but because of that exact reason; that I couldn’t live knowing that I couldn’t have you. A life without me, with… someone else."_

_A rumble in Sherlock’s mind palace knocked both men off their feet. There was a disturbance from the outside causing Sherlock to wake from his mind palace. It angered the detective. He had so many unsaid words, so many questions. He didn’t want to leave Moriarty, he couldn’t and he isn’t._

_Both men raised themselves up on their elbows. They stared at each other from a low as the atmosphere around them was being ripped apart. And within seconds, at the same time they began to crawl towards each other. Both men crawled as quickly as they could as the mind palace shredded itself into smoke and flames._

_“Sherlock.” Moriarty whispered as they closed the gap between them._

_The criminal held his hand out to his detective and that was all he was focused on. Years of trying to rip each other apart and finally they had found peace, a connection they never thought would spark so fiercely. Both men scrambled across the debris ridden floor towards each other. A need for skin upon skin, a touch, a spark._

_Suddenly, just at the detective was inches away from grasping the criminals warm and enticing hands he was ripped away from the smoke and debris. Just as the black swam out of the corners of the light, the last thing he heard was the man he called home bellow in pure heartache._

_And then there was this heat in his chest that was cutting deep as the canyons on Mars._


	22. The Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do forgive me my darlings. Life has been hectic and this chapter is fairly short and brief. I just wanted to give you something as a late Easter gift. I hope it was worth the wait. xo

22\. The Crown  
\- What is it you’re trying to improve?

For all in heaven and all in hell, nothing could possibly match the rage that fuelled within the detective as he was pulled away from the only long standing sovereign that had ever graced his side. A resilient heart that held more than any other man could, a king that watched his empire twine itself with another; another heart that beat too slow for his scientific mind and observational palace to keep up with. _Colliding empires_ , colliding galaxies, and a force of nature made by emotions too great, too deep for both empires to swallow. He sighed, the rage building in the detective was softened by this empire, much to his dislike.

A new era graced the back of his mind, like a new monarch to the throne. It was like being thrown back into the 1950s where misconception sat in the heart of what made you royal and what made you human. It all blended into one golden crown that could fool an entire nation. And the man he felt was a king with his own laws and own sovereign secrets was misunderstood entirely. But not to Sherlock, not now. Misconception was now understanding and secrets were now clues. A new era, a new start. 

He stirred from the light inertia that misplaced him caused by the firm shake of a hand on his shoulder. The firm hold on him was unbearable considering it was the wrong persons hand upon him. Sherlock grunted loudly, hastily pulling his shoulder away from the hand. He quickly opened his eyes, focusing on the surroundings before rapidly standing from his chair and away from the presence that was looming over him.

The muffled presence of talking was blanked out by the intense warmth that flooded from the criminal within him. It burned deeper than the heart of a volcano and even though the sheer weight of the intense feeling overwhelmed him, it made the consulting detective feel so light headed. The waters, the fears that held the detective back at shore were swallowed entirely by the flooding warmth that sank within the taller man. The short, merciless, but tantalising man that sat within his walls made all that transpire, made everything around him a blur, a transgressional reality he wished was a dream. The heat that pooled in his chest like a puddle swarmed to every edge of him and to Sherlock Holmes, it was home, it was heavenly. 

He steadied himself as the burning sensation settled into the fabrics of what made him mortal. And as he simmered from the blur, all he could hear was a man calling after him. 

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock!”

His eyes fixed on John as annoyance flickered past him, “What? What do you want, I was busy.”

The doctor huffed, a smile waved passed, “Busy? We have a thief, a murderer and an assassin roaming free across Britain and you say you’re busy?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said.” Sherlock abruptly answered, skirting around the kitchen table which was cluttered with science equipment and bags of sodium chloride as he headed for his bedroom door.

“He doesn’t exist.”

The voice that filled the tension scattered room made Sherlock grind to a halt before his bedroom door. The male voice had a tinge of concern to it. However, it was filled with such confidence that the detective smirked towards the white varnished door before him. 

He spun on the spot towards Inspector Lestrade, the smirk still firmly upon his lips. Sherlock stared to the Scotland Yard minion, his neck extended a little, egging the man before him to repeat his previous statement. 

Lestrade shook his head, “He doesn’t exist. We traced the name through police records, criminal records and we got nothing. We even traced the name through witness statements and jury service alignments and-“

“-There was nothing.” Sherlock finished.

“Yeah.” Lestrade drawled out as he scratched the back of his head.

John stepped in closer to the conversation. But this was too good to miss. A twinge of excitement panged through Sherlock. He barged past the two men that lingered in the kitchen, John stumbling upon the cluttered covered table.

“Why would she lie? Arthur said there and then in their living room this very morning it was him. She wouldn’t lie, not now Holder knows. No, she would have certainly got the name right; she’s been dating him after all.” Sherlock rambled, pacing the living room, hands in a steeple formation under his chin as the other two men looked on.

“But why wouldn’t he appear on any records? He attempted to steal the coronet. Surely he does theft or related crimes for a living.” John questioned, brushing away the debris left on his clothing from the encounter with the table.

“Maybe Mary was lying. She must be covering for him.” Lestrade confidently said.

The detective paused, “She isn’t as stupid as you, and she would not do that,” Sherlock carried on pacing, “If she lied then she would have known that we would go back to the Holder mansion and question her again. She did NOT lie. HE lied to HER.”

 _“Attaboy.”_

Sherlock grinded to a standstill, closing his eyes, focusing on the Irish lilt that drawled out each syllable smoother than a bow on a set of strings. Sherlock’s heart picked up the pace without hesitation. Now that he knew the deep outer layers of the criminal, all the things the dark brown eyed man said or did made Sherlock catch his breath in anticipation. The detective focused on the small but powering man. His back was to the detective, hands deep in pockets, and even though he couldn’t see the notorious criminals face, he could feel him smirking.

 _“Are you going to keep interrupting my chain of thought when I am working?” Sherlock leered, hoping the answer would be gold._

_“You love it.” Moriarty simply answered, head slightly to the left._

_“You’re distracting me.”_

_“No, I am coaxing you.”_

_“W-Well, it isn’t working.”_

_“Yet…” Moriarty turned to face the taller man with a sweet but captivating grin, “Here you are.”_

_Sherlock opened his mouth but no words spilled. James Moriarty was right. Just simple words enwrapped him back to the Irish gentleman. Among the bright colours that filled the empty spaces around him was tension, Sherlock didn’t know if it was sexual or just anticipation but it was enough to make him feel to push the criminal against a wall. The thoughts lingered around him like the smell of the smaller man that infilled any room Sherlock strolled in to even if the criminal wasn’t there. A court jester for his king. A king who didn’t wear a crown but stood proudly and forcefully._

_Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, “Y-You know, I want to be here with you. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”_

_Moriarty raised his eyebrows mischievously, “I didn’t know I had that bad of an effect on you, darling.” He lilted, before glancing downwards towards Sherlock’s lower region._

_While the criminal smirked widely at the detective, Sherlock suddenly looked towards where the criminal previously glanced in a state of panic. To the detective’s relief, nothing was apparent that he did have that effect on him… yet._

_He looked back towards the criminal who was trying to supress a chuckle. Sherlock swallowed hard, closing his eyes. Why did he have this effect on him? It was embarrassingly and unavoidably tantalising._

_“Is coaxing me your new favourite hobby?” Sherlock asked._

_“Why, do you want it to be?”_

_“That isn’t the point.”_

_“But it is.”_

_“No, it isn’t.”_

_“Avoiding the obvious.”_

_“You’re avoiding my question.”_

_“Come on, Sherlylocks, you loooooooove it.” Moriarty sung, stepping closer._

_“You’re so sure of yourself.”_

_“I’m a narcissist, that’s what we do.”_

_Sherlock sighed, “I love these little conversations we have; they’re so fittingly domestic."_

_James licked his lips with a smirk, so close but so far, “I didn’t realise we were married.”_

_“I’m married to my work.” Sherlock quickly countered, staring at the man._

_Moriarty was inches away from Sherlock, a smirk still firmly fixed to his lips, “Meaning, you’re married to me.”_

_Sherlock, in a state of nervousness and shock at the conclusion that exchange came to stopped breathing and all he was greeted with was the uncontrollable scent of James Moriarty, who, was precisely 1.7 inches away from him. Petrol encircled the both of them like a garage that had spilled the contents of the fuel into an ocean. The hints of Irish coffee and roses that the detective had always sensed were now bursting at the seams of what made them one. The detective had never been so caught, so helpless and so coaxed._

_All the both of them could do was stare at one another. Something undeniably clicked between the two of them like electromagnetism within a star. They were two separate people, opposite sides of a coin with the same magnificence, the same anxieties, and the same intelligence. They were one when together and lost when separated. They were fire and ice, while one would burn the other would cool them down, when one was too cold the other would warm them up. They were dark and light, they were dangerous and safe, and they were land and ocean._

“Sherlock.”

 _A muffled calling of the detective’s name disturbed their intimacy but neither men moved or hindered. The smooth, dark chocolate coloured eyes that Sherlock engrossed himself into looked so wild, so hungry that the detective wanted to taste everything that made the man in front of him one of the only people in the world to make life worth living. James Moriarty, a (dead) consulting criminal, a player, who seemed to take everything in but never gave anything out. He was the current in his veins, he was the only person to make creases in the rain._

“Sherlock.”

 _It called again, Sherlock scowled towards the call but the man just 1.7 inches away wasn’t fazed by the call._

_“Go.” Moriarty softly whispered, eyes never leaving his._

_Sherlock pouted, the warmth flooding around him like a wave washing over the sand._

_“Go back to reality before you get sectioned.” Moriarty joked, a sad smile following._

_“I’m surprised you’re the one saying that when you was more likely to be sectioned than me.” Sherlock smiled._

_Moriarty huffed, “They wouldn’t dare have tried.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because I would have took you with me.”_

_“Why?”_

_“To keep me sane,” Moriarty finished before another call of his detective’s name filled the void, “Now go, I won’t be going anywhere.”_

_“You promise?” Sherlock begged, eye brow raising._

_“Don’t be so ordinary."_

_“I would never stoop so low.”_

_“Though you have many times before.”_

_“Keep me entertained then.” Sherlock replied quickly, smirking._

_“Since when don’t I?”_

_"Hm, that's true."_

_“Now, fuck off before I use that coat of yours as bondage.”_

_“Charming.” Sherlock whispered into the lips of the criminal._

_“Coaxing.”_

_“Keep it up.” The detective replied as he drifted to the voice._

_“Is that a demand?” Moriarty egged._

_“A request.” Sherlock finished._

_“Attaboy.”_

 

\--

 

“SHERLOCK!?”

The detective was shook back to reality by John’s firm hand and voice. And once again, irritation boiled to the surface only to be simmered to a low heat when Moriarty forcefully bought it down. He let the warmth flood his chest; the feeling was home.

“Get off, John!” Sherlock roughly barged past, collecting his phone from the coffee table. 

“You zoned out!” John exclaimed, looking on at the detective.

The taller man pulled his coat on, focusing more on Moriarty than John. He sat close to the detective, keeping him coaxed. He licked his lips and Sherlock did everything in his power not to return to the criminal with such a simple mannerism. 

Sherlock huffed loudly, “I was busy.”

“Busy? Doing what?” John questioned further while Lestrade shuffled to the doorway, trying not to take any notice of the confrontation building.

Sherlock stared at the smaller man, “I had to deal with a… personal matter.”

John looked on in astonishment, “Wh… No, I don’t want to know.”

“Good because we don’t have time for this.” Sherlock snapped, barging past Lestrade before descending the staircase.

“What?” John asked, following closely behind, followed by Lestrade.

“Mary Holder goes for a walk every evening to Streatham Green at precisely 6:30pm. And… it is currently 6:17pm so we don’t have long to catch her.” Sherlock replied, a smirk developing as he placed his gloves on.

All three men made their way out of the front door on to Baker Street. London was oddly boring without Moriarty controlling it. Sherlock locked on to the previous thought and a pang of sadness filled him only for it to be dispersed by the criminal who once again caught the detective. He blew a kiss. To the detective. Sherlock paused a second to let his heart catch up.

“How on Earth can you possibly know she goes for a walk at that time?” Lestrade exclaimed, hands falling to his sides.

“Where is the fun in telling you that?” Sherlock blankly replied.

A taxi pulled to the curb and Sherlock opened the door. Time was really running out.

“Come on, John!” Sherlock sighed.

The doctor climbed into the taxi and Sherlock looked on at Lestrade. 

“Any amendments call me.” Lestrade said before strolling back down Baker Street.

_“Don’t call him.” Moriarty uttered to the detective._

_“Is that a demand?”_

_“Na, just an ultimatum.”_

_“And what exactly is the consequence if I reject?”_ Sherlock asked filled with suspense.

_“Telling you would be playing fair, and I am not in that kind of a mood.”_

_“I hate you.”_ Sherlock joked.

_“Be careful, Sherly, words like that make me frisky.” James teased, a smirk developing._

Sherlock stepped into the cab, _“You astound me.”_

_The criminal grinned, “You bring it out of me.”_

_“Coaxing is definitely your new hobby.”_ Sherlock smiled.

_“Hobby? No. Skill? Yes. Coaxing you? Easy peasy.”_

_“I really do hate you.”_

_“Mmmmmmm, keep talking lover boy.”_

And at that exact moment, Sherlock stopped breathing and left the dreams at the curb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sir George Burnwell. *smirks*


	23. Major Minus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darlings! It has been a while since I updated, I know. But hopefully you can forgive me as I return with a brand new chapter. It isn't exactly how I wanted it to be however, this chapter needs to be here for the future. So, I apologise if it sucks. So, here it is! If you have stuck with me this long, thank you so so much. And if you have just joined then thank you for ending up at this little corner of the world. Much love xo

23\. Major Minus  
\- They got one eye watching you. One eye, what you do? So be careful who it is you’re talking to.

Streatham Green on a late Friday afternoon was a summer hazed disco. The sky was a blend of every colour you can kiss with your lips, a golden touch, maybe even _too_ much. People were scattered among the silk green grass that stretched among the green, the only thing saving it from being the jealous filled wonder that it is was the flower beds that bloomed with primroses and violets. Music was quietly sizzling at the edges from cars passing buy or the old French windows that beamed among close homes. It was a comfort for the detective to know that even though there are dark acts at the soul of this beautiful city, there is still warmth and train tracks that took its handlers to their destinations.

There is always a first time for everything even if your first time could be your last and the criminal who hummed warmly against the detective reminded him of that every second he took a breath without the real him. It saddened the tall man even though happiness was settling into the warmth around him.

The detective and his doctor slowly strolled around the green, eyes on everything and everyone even though they were looking for one person in particular. Sherlock focused more on the criminal who was coaxing the detective with that smirk and delicious Irish hum of his. The worst thing about the whole situation was that the criminal didn’t have to say anything, not one word to coax the detective, his moon curved grin was enough. Sherlock didn’t know if to be amazed at the skills the criminal has or ashamed at how Sherlock fell for it so easily. Unfortunately, it was the latter. 

The pair came to a halt at the same bench they sat on two days previously. The initials of Mary Holder and Sir George Burnwell still freshly carved into the bench which caused an involuntary grunt to escape the taller man. He sulked into the bench like a child compared to John who relaxed into it and his surroundings, a little smile on his face. Content and oblivious.

John sighed looking on at the spectrum burning sky, “I could get use to this.”

The army man gestured towards the green and the summer haze that graced it. It was like watching a man fall in love all over again.

“Get used to what?” Sherlock hummed back, mind on a short but feisty man far away.

John nodded towards the green, “This. Relaxing, taking in the summer sun, with my best friend.”

Sherlock snapped his head towards the army doctor who looked lovingly towards him, a smile softly gracing his lips. It was odd to see such a loving smile on his lips for Sherlock. He had seen it for other people like Mary and his daughter, Amelia, but never so intently for himself. 

A pang of tangy emotion flooded from the criminal who only scowled inwardly at the kind gesture from the army doctor. Sherlock gasped, the oxygen holding his throat, not quite able to convert into carbon dioxide. 

Was… Was Moriarty _jealous?_

Was James Moriarty, the most notorious criminal to walk the planet jealous of a few simple kind words from an ex-army doctor?

Sherlock blushed, a twinge of embarrassment flooding over him. He wasn’t quite sure if he was blushing at the words from the doctor or because of the overly possessive and jealous filled man’s feelings. It sunk to the bottom of Sherlock’s oceans, a lost vessel, and a lost moment never to be understood or found again.

Sherlock replied the only way he know how.

“Boring.” Sherlock bluntly grimaced, looking away from the man, disinterested.

The army doctor frowned, “Boring? You find being in my company boring?”

The detective rolled his eyes, “No, sitting around ‘relaxing’ is boring. Too much is going on in this city to stop for a minute. Cities never sleep.”

“Don’t you get to the point where you need a break? An escape?” John laughed, looking on at the curly haired man. 

The detective paused a second. He didn’t need a break from it all. It was his livelihood, his life. The crimes of others is what keeps him occupied, keeps him entertained so to speak. But an escape? Yes, he did need an escape because even though reality was as interesting as a flower bursting at the seams, there was something missing, someone missing. 

But his escape was slipping away to his mind palace, dancing with the man he only had the guts to do it with. A criminal, a paper kiss.

Sherlock took a deep inhale, “I don’t see the point of taking a break from my work when it is all that I have.”

The honesty that flooded from him took the army doctor by surprise. Maybe it is all Sherlock had close to him in issues that the heart cannot take.

Within a matter of seconds, Mary Holder slowly wandered around the curve of the path the bench was situated on. She was in a light blue dress, hair down that swarmed past her shoulders and flat sandals that laced around her feet elegantly. Her eyes were everywhere, searching the dozens of people who swarmed the green grass, to the cracks in the path to the sky that blissfully became more complicated by the minute.

Sherlock and John silently watched the young lady search the green for something in particular. It was obvious to who it was she was trying to locate. 

Mary slowly took a few more steps forward. As she turned to face the bench, her eyes fell on the two men who occupied it with their chests puffed out like they had never been so violently disrupted. She came to a sudden halt, eyes falling back and forth between the detective and the army doctor. Strangely, the detective could feel Mary’s heart pounding against her chest even though he wasn’t touching her. She was shocked, stunned and speechless.

Sherlock smiled teasingly towards her, “Is he not here?”

She huffed, weakly frowning towards the detective, “Who?”

The taller man raised his brow, staring at her. Could she really take him as a fool? Moriarty, maybe, but not the average.

“Every Friday evening at 6:30pm you meet a man, here, at this bench. But, tonight, he is not here even though you declared the warmth in your chests by carving your initials into this bench.” Sherlock softly explained, gesturing towards where the letters sat between himself and John.

She sighed heavily, dumping herself between the small and tall man. Both men looked at her from both sides. She looked tired, like she hadn’t slept in days. Everything about her screamed heartbroken but it felt like she was holding on to something deep down inside her.

“George wouldn’t do this. Everything about us fitted together like a jigsaw. To go even further, he was my missing piece. I don’t have parents and even though Holder is my uncle, he never has stuck me back together.” She sadly looked on at the green and its warm blooded heart.

“What about Arthur?” John asked, keeping his eyes on her.

She huffed before turning to look at the army doctor, “He is my cousin and he loves me more than he should. It’s more complicated than it should be. Family, they aren’t the people who stick you back together again, it’s the person you never thought could and George was that person for me.”

“He promised you an escape.” Sherlock clarified.

Mary turned to the detective, “This place, it holds too many memories. He knows how much I struggle here. He promised to take me to the places I paint. He promised a new life, a new adventure. Everyone needs that at some point in their life. An escape.”

Once again, the word _escape_ lingered around Sherlock. Escaping from reality, from this city was what he needed more often than usual. But she was right, and John. Everyone does need an escape, even if it is for an hour or even a whole decade.

“Have you heard from him since the attempted robbery?” John asked.

She shook her head, “He has disappeared off the face of the Earth. We send letters every other day. I haven’t had one from him. It is unlike him so... I came here hoping he would show.”

She sadly smiled towards the army doctor while Sherlock had his mind on other things, magnificent things. 

“How long have you been dating?” Sherlock requested. 

“6 months.” She replied, fiddling with the daisy she had in her hands.

“Have you only ever met him here?” John questioned further, turning towards her.

She smiled, “We met here,” she paused, looking out to the hazy green, “I always came here for an escape from the house and one day, six months ago, we met here, at this bench and the rest is history. He took me to dinner, strolls in Hyde Park, the cinema. But here was our home.”

“You’ve never been to his house?” John shockingly questioned.

“No. He has never been to Holder’s either. He has walked me to the gates and that is it. It was too risky to let him in to my house because of Holder.” She clarified. 

The detective stood, eyes on the glorious green, hands behind his back, “He never took you to his house? Not ever?”

The young girl looked up from her daisy to the man, “Well… No. He took me to this house on Baker Street.”

The tall and short man snapped their head towards Mary. The words that spilled from her lips didn’t seem real. The criminal, the thief that had caused all this chaos and heartache had been snaking to a house on the same street as the detective?

In that instant, Moriarty chuckled in the background radiation that sizzled at the edges of the detective’s walls. A chuckle that was tangy and dark. A childish noise, a pessimistic shot. Sherlock scowled at the chuckle. Why had he become sardonic all of a sudden?

“Baker Street?” John anxiously questioned

“Yeah.” She clarified.

“Baker Street, Westminster, London, NW1?” Sherlock rapidly spoke.

“Yes! Near Marylebone.” She beamed. 

“What house?” the detective carried on.

She frowned, “I’m not entirely sure what house number it was but it was the one opposite the little café.”

John snapped his head up towards the detective. Shock sulked his face as he stood alongside the detective.

“Sherlock, that’s opposite our flat, well, your flat.” He whispered. 

The taller man didn’t reply, instead he stared into nothing in particular. Words were taken from him. A thief lived right under his nose and he wasn’t even aware of it. It stole all of the words from his throat, like paper stealing all the ink from a pen. And the most painful thing was the fact Morairty sat there and smirked right in his face.

And then, it hit him in the head like a football. This, was magnificent. 

“Tomorrow.” The detective grinned.

John frowned, “Tomorrow?”

“You,” he looked towards the young lady, “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’m free tomorrow,” She stood with the two men, “What’s going on?”

“Thank you for that delightful information, I shall message you later with more information about tomorrow.” Sherlock said as he started to walk away from the doctor and Mary.

“What’s tomorrow?” John shouted to the detective.

“A robbery.” He replied, before disappearing among the souls that scattered across the green.

Both John and Mary looked on at the direction Sherlock disappeared. They were left there like two school kids in the playground. She giggled, folding her arms across her chest.

“He is one hell of a guy, isn’t he?” She smiled.

John sighed, replying with one but simple word, “Yep.”

 

\--

 

_If you were to catch a thief, in the middle of a concrete jungle, in the centre of the place that is your domain, your empire, where better than the heart of where you made your faults? Your weaknesses? Your safe place?_

_Sir George Burnwell, a man with such charm that he could whisk a broken girl off her feet. A man with guts and cutting motives. A man with secretiveness and craftiness which stifled all the people he encountered. If there was a man so similar, it was James Moriarty._

_James Moriarty was a man who whisked a broken man off his feet. A man with recklessness and sadistic motives. A man with furtiveness and deviousness which charmed anyone who got in his way. He was a mirror to the man who the detective needed to catch, a man that doesn’t seem real._

_In all that, the detective had set the stage, the last stand between himself and Sir George Burnwell and his reward?_

_Well, that was sitting with a man who sat with his knees to his chest like a boy who watches the stars fade._

_They sat in silence, watching nothing in particular, just a different view of London on the rooftop where they last met in reality. It wounded the mood but it was the criminal’s choice of place so the detective just went along with it._

_“Do you miss it?” Sherlock asked, referring to London, this midnight side of London._

_There was a long pause from the criminal who kept his eyes on the skyline, “Some days.”_

_Sherlock returned to the skyline, inhaling a fresher feel of London in his mind palace._

_“Some days I hate it,” Morairty growled, “I could tear this city down with my bare hands, crumbling the edges of the dust that settles into every crack that tastes like sweet endings. And then… Other days, I wish I could taste that. Oh, I would do anything just to taste that once again.” He sadly finished, eyes falling on to his knees._

_Sherlock didn’t know what to say to the honest words that fell from the man next to him. In that moment, Moriarty looked so small, so pure. Knees to his chest with a smile that matched the sadness in his eyes. It was an honour to the detective to see this vulnerable side to him even if this wasn’t real._

_Moriarty turned his head to Sherlock, an expression graced his face that the detective couldn’t quite work out. That was another vessel lost to both of their oceans._

_“You’ll catch him tomorrow.” Moriarty smiled._

_“Who?”_

_“Don’t act like a moron, it doesn’t suit you.”_

_“Then you should be more specific.” Sherlock teased._

_“Are you trying to wind me up?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Moriarty rolled his eyes._

_“I win.” Sherlock stated, looking back towards the London skyscrapers._

_The criminal scowled, “It wasn’t a contest!”_

_“I still win.”_

_“Piss off, you pompous prick.” Moriarty sneered looking back at the skyline with a shake of the head._

_Sherlock smirked, “No need to get rowdy, short arse.”_

_“I dare you to call me that again.”_

_Sherlock leaned in close to the criminal, the smell of petrol overwhelming him slightly, “Short. Arse.”_

_In a split second, the criminal pounced, forcing the detective to the floor, grabbing his hands as he clambered on top of the detective, legs either side of his hips, hands interlocked with his either side of his head as the criminal loomed over him._

_Both men caught their breath at the struggle between them before both of them realised the position they had somehow clambered in to. Moriarty stared at the eyes that stared at him back as he stooped above the weight under him. Neither of them said a word when their eyes said it all. Hearts started to beat ten time quicker and bodies started to relax into one another. The weight of James Moriarty on his hips was enough for Sherlock to swallow hard and his breathing to become uneven. The small man was heavy but made the whole of Sherlock feel like a feather. The feeling was a black and white reaction, but a feeling that once again was a lost vessel on his oceans._

_The most intimate part of the whole situation was their hands. As the detective found anxiety lurking at the edges of the criminals frame, he ever so softly tightened his fingers around the small man above him, a sign of comfort and reassurance. And the criminal returned the gesture back by squeezing Sherlock’s hands._

_A century passed before either men could think of speaking. The situation was awkward but so right that the pair didn’t hinder._

_“Alright,” Sherlock paused, “You win.”_

_Moriarty smiled shyly at Sherlock his eyes falling away from him for a split second before returning to him with the most warm but deep affirmation. He wanted to know how the criminal felt, how his body was feeling to this unexpected intimacy, to the connection that sparked at this exact moment. It was a mystery Sherlock wanted to carve out of him._

_“I always win.” James smirked, his teeth flashing a devilish wonder._

_“No, I let you win.”_

_“Don’t be soppy now.”_

_“Says the man who uses words such as ‘dear’ and darling’.” Sherlock teased._

_“They are not soppy. They are coaxing.”_

_“Not this again.”_

_“You love it.”_

_And in that moment, Sherlock’s mouth worked quicker than his brain.”_

_“Yes I do.”_

_Sherlock had never seen such surprise on James Moriarty’s face. His eyes lit up for a split second at the honesty that has spilled from him even if he didn’t even realise he had said it all. Sherlock swallowed hard as he stared at the man who was making his body react to him on top of him. This, was a first._

_Moriarty smiled, “Like I said, you will catch him tomorrow.”_

_“I always catch criminals.”_

_“You didn’t catch me.”_

_“You’re an exception.”_

_“In what way?”_

_Sherlock paused, “Does it need saying?”_

_“Yes.” Moriarty smirked._

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Because I wanted you free.”_

_“Mmmmm, music to my ears.” Moriarty moaned._

_“You’re such a narcissist.”_

_“You’re such a sociopath.”_

_“Thank you.” Sherlock beamed._

_“It wasn’t a compliment.”_

_“Spoil sport.”_

_“Fishing for compliments are we?” Moriarty lilted._

_“Always.”_

_“Get out of here.”_

_“Only if you give me a compliment.”_

_Moriarty rolled his eyes before sighing. His eyes fell back on the detective._

_“You’re the most extraordinary person I have ever met.”_

_If a heart could explode, then death right there would have been beautiful._


	24. Free Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was quick wasn't it? Why hello my dear friends! Here is the next chapter. I was on such a roll writing my fanfic that I just had to update once again! Thank you for all of your lovely comments on the previous chapter. I'm so grateful really I am. So here is Chapter 24 and I hope it was worth the short wait! Much love xo
> 
> (WARNING: Sorry for any feels you encounter in this chapter, because its gonna be a good wait until the next!)

24\. Free Smoke  
\- I'm the troublemaker in the neighbourhood.

 

\--

_Meet me at our usual hide out on Baker Street.  
8:30pm tomorrow._

_I have a little something you might want._

_MH x_

 

\--

 

For a room full of different souls, with different fears, different lives, different weaknesses, different breathing patterns and different skills, it was oddly silent. Though silence wasn’t a bad thing, it made it all more painful when the detective was surrounded by people due to their endless mistakes. 

The room was cold. It was darker than it should be. Even though the corners of the room were filled with the shades of individuals, the shadows of them were an odd colour. The gloom of it all confused the detective as to why this room in particular was darker than the sky outside. Even though the night sky isn’t actually black but a very dark blue, it made the detective shiver slightly as to how dark the room was. But the shiver that rattled across his body was a warm shiver. If you thought it was possible, it really was. Due to the fact Moriarty was pouring heat to the detective like a bonfire that burned brighter than the flames that made a star.

But the brightest light in the room was from the glisten of gold that sat in the hands of Mary Holder who placed herself in the left corner of the room by the window. The red and purple fabric of the Coronet were transformed into black in the dimness of the room. Even the pearls and rubies had been engulfed by the dark. The flicker of the precious metal brought a danger to the room but at the same time, it gave a glimmer of hope. Centuries of monarchs, of earls and dukes, wars and attempted assassinations proved how hope sits in the heart of a society. It had survived everything. 

Sherlock stood with his hands behind his back, his long coat adding to the blackness in the room; only his white shirt adding to the light somewhat. John was to the side of him, his presence a slight comfort due to the matter at hand. They were about to deal with one of the most dangerous thieves in London. He is capable of anything and everything. Sherlock smiled at the thought. 

Lestrade stood in the doorway that overlooked the staircase, hands in pockets, shuffling side to side. His nervousness irritated the detective and his criminal and both men rolled their eyes at the apprehension he was depositing into the too gloomy room. Mary Holder was just as nervous but that was shrouded by the prospect of meeting her lover once again. But this time, it was for the wrong reasons. John stood to the right side of the detective in the centre of the room. He was ready, like any man who was going to war. And lastly, Mary Watson was wandered in the room next door who waited just as patiently as everyone else for the thief. She was excited. The first time in a long while she had been given the chance to put her agent skills to use. Amelia was safe with Mrs Hudson, keeping the plan that side of the road too.

The room was as big as Sherlock’s living room, near enough an exact replica. However, to the right of the room was a door that was connected to the next room where Mary was situated. Like you would see in old fashioned houses. The stage was set for the robbery. Mary and the Coronet, a detective and an army doctor, an ex-assassin and a man from Scotland Yard. It should be simple, but, nothing is ever simple.

“Did you bring your gun?” Sherlock quietly asked John, splitting the silence in the room.

“What would I need a gun for? We are arresting him, not threatening him.” John answered, hands moving to his back.

“I’ve got it!” Mary shouted from the other room, making both men look in her direction. She held the pistol in the air swaying it from side to side with a big goofy smile. 

Sherlock smirked at the actions of Mary. She outranked John at this precise moment. The detective felt a tang of appreciation from the criminal. Moriarty was impressed with Mary.

John sighed, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Calm down, it’s only a precaution.” Sherlock reassured.

“A precaution? So you believe that he will be fine?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The doctor looked up to the taller man, “Oh. So you believe that he won’t go absolutely apeshit at the fact he is being set up for robbery? Then again you don’t believe that the Earth orbits around the sun.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Are we really going to do this now?”

_“You really don’t know that the Earth orbits the Sun?”_

Moriarty snickered at the revelation causing Sherlock to heavily huff in annoyance at the pair of them.

“Why can’t you accept that it does?! It is primary school matter!” John loudly whispered.

“Pack it up, John. You still don’t believe that Mrs Hudson smoked marijuana.” Mary called from the side room.

“She can’t have!”

“She did!” Sherlock and Mary said in unison.

John, in reaction to it all could only muster up a heavy huff and a scoff.

Then, in all the drama that had been created in less than 30 seconds, the front door clicked open. Everything fell silent just like when it goes completely still after throwing a pebble into a pond. The sudden silence that settled into the fabrics of the room made everyone get into positions. Sherlock and Lestrade joined Mary in the side room, closing the door behind them. John hid behind the open door to the room completely in the dark. The room was oddly darker than it should be. And lastly Mary got up on to her feet and made her way to the window. She opened the curtains and directly opposite was Sherlock’s flat. The lights were on, a silhouette of Sherlock’s body in the window like he was playing the violin. Just like he was completely unaware of the robbery taking place just across the street. 

The young girls breathing rapidly increased with every step Sir George Burnwell, her lover, her escape ascended the staircase. She retained her eyes on the city outside as buses and people carried on moving, carried on with their day to day lives while a crime was being committed right next to them.

Sherlock stood to the side of the door, back against the wall. He focused on the footsteps, only a few more to go. The footsteps of the man were loud, heavy even. He must have been a heavy man or even a well-built man. His shoes made dull stomping sounds, no click or any sign of indication he was wearing shoes that suited a man of the city. Trainers? Doc Martins? Boots? It was hard to determine behind a brick wall. 

Mary waited in front of the door, her shadow not obvious to the next room due to the darkness that sank in every space. She smiled widely to Sherlock, excitement filling every fibre of her being. Lestrade was less as excited and even more anxious. He waited behind Mary, the safety of the gun in her hand bringing down his anxiety by a few decimals. Only decimals.

And then the footsteps stopped.

Silence once again swamped the room. Not even ones breathing could be heard. The only sound emitting into the room was nightlife that carried on outside. It was eerie.

The young girl bit her lip, the silence was enough to make anyone go insane. Everyone waited anxiously as the show began.

“I didn’t think you’d show. I thought my little cousin might have scared you away. But then again… You were always the braver one out of the two of us.” She steadily spoke as she turned to Burnwell.

Everyone waited patiently for a reply, but instead was greeted with the sound of footsteps entering the room. The silence took hold once again until the tall, muscular man managed to speak.

“Bravery means nothing to us when you hold the prize in your hands.”

The voice was rough. It grated the insides of Sherlock’s ear canal. It was a voice he didn’t recognise, so definitely not a known person. A newbie, that was nice the detective thought. The voice was English, slightly cockney, but it seemed to be masked over like he was attempting to hide it. It was a hard voice compared to Moriarty. The criminal’s voice was smooth and charming. The Irish lilt gave his speech fluency. He spelled out letters of certain words to intimidate the way he said it. Moriarty really was the king of speech. 

She stared at him, her heart in her mouth, “Where have you been? You haven’t responded to my letters.”

He looked away slowly walking to the left side of the room, a destination nowhere in mind. He was unrecognisable in the dark and completely unrecognisable from the other side of the door. The dark shrouded his appearance. He was just a tall, muscular shadow to the rest of the world.

“I’ve been busy. You know how it is.” He shrugged.

“Busy with what? Too busy to see me?” She quickly retaliated.

He sighed, “Is this what this is about? Havin’ a pop at me about not seeing you since I attempted to steal that shitty thing?”

He looked towards the Coronet in her hands. She looked down at it, she had to give it him. It was the deal.

“Is this what all of this was about? Getting close to me, whisking me off my feet just so then you could steal this?”

He didn’t reply. His silence spoke wonders. It’s strange how silence can do more damage than noise. Similar to the silent killers; carbon monoxide and a silent bomb. But nothing wounds more than silent words.

Sherlock swallowed hard at the conversation unfolding the other side of the door. He predicted it would happen. She would finally realise it was all for the Beryl Coronet and not her. A young girl who was swept away by a tall, (supposedly) handsome man. Thought her dreams had come true, promising her an escape from reality and all of its heartaches. It was all too familiar. 

“WELL?!” She shouted to her lover.

Burnwell didn’t reply and Mary broke down sobbing, turning back to face the window. The coronet safely held to her chest. He walked to stand beside her looking out of the window. She looked up to the taller man and realised his eyes were on the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes across the street. She smirked slightly, it was going to plan.

“I was meant to get that attached to you. It was a job I had been set.” He finally responded.

And within a split second she snapped.

“So you didn’t just WANT to steal it, you were told to by SOMEONE ELSE?!”

He stepped back from her, “It was a job, ‘m sorry.”

“YOU’RE SORRY?”

“If you just dragged me here to have a go at me then why the fuck did ya bring the fookin crown with you?!” He shouted back, his cockney accent slipping through more than intended. Sherlock smiled widely. This was just perfect.

“To see if you really wanted me or this!” She yelled back pointing to the coronet. 

Burnwell didn’t respond, rubbing the back of his head, honesty obviously wasn’t one of his strengths.

She gasped, “Take it! Just take it and leave! You’re a worthless piece of shit.”

She chucked the coronet at him as hard as she could, but a man with what seemed a lot of muscle caught it in his abdomen. She turned, sobbing into her shirt sleeve facing the window. But instead of legging it, he stayed. He hesitated, the floorboards creaking slightly underfoot. Burnwell mustered up the courage to take a step closer to the enraged young women.

“Mary…” Burnwell whispered.

“Just… Go. Just fucking go,” she sobbed, “GO.”

Sherlock grabbed hold of the door handle ready to pounce on his thief. Lestrade had the handcuffs ready and Mary had the gun loaded just for a precaution. The stage had been set and now it was time for the final act.

Burnwell sighed heavily before turning slowly, walking back towards the exit. And just before he could escape away with the crown in his hands, John Watson smashed the door shut with his foot. It slammed shut with an almighty bang, loud enough to wake the dead and to alert the trio behind the door. Burnwell froze to the spot while Mary turned to face the two men, her heart beating ten to the dozen.

John smirked to the much taller man and spoke with such sarcasm that even Moriarty would be impressed.

“Going somewhere?”

Mary, Lestrade and Sherlock burst through the door to tackle down the tall, strapping man. It was dark, so dark that Sherlock couldn’t make out Burnwell or John. The gloom and deceit was everywhere. Too much. Moriarty tried to help the detective locate him but even the genius himself was struggling.

In the three seconds they had burst in the room, no one could have predicted what was going to happen next. 

A gunshot rung into the room and all that could be heard afterwards was Mary Holder screaming into the abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment your predictions as to what happened! Thank you and much love xo


	25. Do I Wanna Know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get your pitchforks at the ready! Miracles.

25: Do I Wanna Know?  
\- Have you no idea that you’re in deep?

What would be your instant reaction to the sound of a gunshot? Would you have the guts to stand among the smoke of the bullet and fight for the things that make every day worth living? Would you disappear out into the nights that are never spoken of again? Or would you be the one firing it? To the room that had been graced with a gun, the darkness was all that made staying worth risking.

Mary Holders scream drenched the room in sweltering fear. The hearts of everyone in the room beat to the rate that light travels. The cusp of living was at a thin thread for someone in the room and among the darkness and pistol cold were people shouting each other’s names in attempt to have clarification that they were fine.

“John?!”

“John?!”

There was panic in every inch of the room, emitting from every individual and pouring out of every shadow that was cast by the moon. But not only was there panic in reality, but panic from the consulting detective’s mind palace. There was enough catastrophe happening in front of the criminal that he jumped to his feet. His eyes were wide, black and panic-stricken. His fists were clenched to his side, a little tremble in his jaw as he swallowed hard at the scene in front of him. James Moriarty breathed rapidly to the silence emitting from Sherlock. The criminal couldn’t feel a thing from the detective, just pure stillness and strangely coldness.

_“Sherlock?” Moriarty shouted but silence is all that returned._

_“Sherlock?”_

_“SHERLOCK?!” He bellowed into the mind palace._

_Moriarty’s breathing stopped. Anxiety slipped into the sides of his frame as he scanned the area around him in the mind palace. No, no, not now, this was all wrong. He had only just began a new journey with the detective, no it cannot end like this, no, not at all._

_He felt useless, he couldn’t help the detective, protect him or stay by his side from the mind palace. He cursed into the open safe. If he didn’t make the mistake of killing himself then he could have prevented this. Everything was much simpler in hindsight._

_He closed his eyes trying to focus on the detective until a jolt rattled through the detective causing the criminal to reopen his eyes._

_“Yes, yes I am here.” Sherlock finally responded from the sides._

_Moriarty growled into the open space before stalking to the near wall and punching it with his fist. He breathed rapidly, trying to calm himself down knowing that his detective was alive. He put his hand on the wall, steadying himself._

_“I suppose that was meant for me?” Sherlock asked, teasing the criminal as an attempt to calm him down which was failing miserably._

_The criminal swallowed hard, “Yes. Yes it fucking was.”_

_Sherlock smiled, “Thank you, I look forward to it.”_

_Moriarty pulled his hand away from the wall, letting it drop to his side. Sherlock, however, felt a tang of pain through their connection. The detective focused on the criminals hand, it was grazed, bruised and slightly swollen from the punch to the wall. Sherlock sighed, he wanted to tend to his wounds and anxiety but right now someone has been shot and he still doesn’t know who._

_“You’ve broke your hand.” Sherlock softly said._

_The criminal clenched his jaw, “Forget about me. Go and find the person who potentially could be dying which right now doesn’t sound too bad.”_

_Sherlock scowled, “I don’t want you in pain.”_

_“I am fine.”_

_“Don’t lie.”_

_“Pain isn’t something that affects me.”_

_“Another lie.”_

_“Go away.”_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes to the small man, “I know when you’re in pain because when it affects you, it affects me and I can’t stand to look at you when you’re in pain because of me, so don’t patronise me.”_

__

_The criminal swallowed hard at the pain. It wasn’t the worst pain he had experienced but it sure was agony. He started to blush slightly at the words from the detective. Thankfully there was a low glow that simmered in the area he was situated casting a shadow over his embarrassingly chemical defect reaction. No one had ever been affected by the criminal’s pain. It was an odd feeling that sat with criminal but it certainly wasn’t unwelcomed. He took the statement in and felt warm._

__

_“Go, I will be fine.” Moriarty reassured but the detective wasn’t convinced._

__

_“I will be back to deal with your hand. Don’t go anywhere.” Sherlock stated._

__

_“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The consulting criminal sarcastically replied as he watched Sherlock return to reality with an embarrassingly comforting smile._

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_\--_

__

It was only a few seconds after the gunshot echoed into the room that Sherlock had been in his mind palace and within those few minor seconds, Mary had located John and Lestrade had hold of Mary in his arms. Everyone was accounted for except George Burnwell.

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The detective scanned the darkness in the room until a tangy, metallic aroma hit the room. The smell of blood. Salty just like the detective was standing beside the ocean. Blood, an element so fundamental to living but could be so easily spilled with one paper cut or one wrong move. Thick and warm, sizzling under everyone’s skin in the small space they were in. It crossed the detective’s mind if Moriarty’s blood was more a hot, boiling entity. Such a passion (aggressiveness) and powerful (dominant) soul. A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he realised fantastical hankerings were a major distraction to the situation.

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__

Innately, through the darkness, the crystal glimmer of the coronet and the heavy breathing that surrounded the room, Sherlock noticed a shift in the shadow in front of him and the grazing of clothing against the wall. A pang of apprehension spilled to Sherlock from Moriarty. In an attempt to reassure that he will come to no harm, the detective flooded some warmth back in an effort to reciprocate the affection shown. _Affection._

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__

Sherlock didn’t find the idea repulsive, but the thought of such _ordinary_ things being shared between the two men didn’t make it any lighter on him. They were both immune to such _human_ giddy mess. It was firmly obvious how much both men despised such weak and dull life necessities that was imbedded in the ordinary. And yes, biologically they were as ordinary but scientifically complex as the rest of the world but not intellectually. Not visually. They were as complex and beautiful as a burning star. The only two types in the world. The revulsion of such sentiment was curiously missing and that outlandishly was okay. To Sherlock, Morairty being a consulting criminal solitary by necessity was exactly the reason why Sherlock was a consulting detective. But it was clear that both men had acknowledged that they were loners. And Moriarty wasn’t a man for giving up control for the sake of such ordinary compulsions.

__

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“Sherlock? Are you alright?” Called Mary who was still clinging to John.

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__

It hadn’t registered to the detective as of yet but he was staring at the large shadow situated before him. Snapping back, he slowly approached the impending life, hesitating slightly at every step. It was only until he was sinking to a crouching position did Lestrade shine a light on what the consulting detective was approaching and to his relief it was a bloodied George Burnwell.

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Sherlock smirked towards the hulk of a man who had blood seeping through the black of his shirt at the shoulder as the salty crimson colour trickled down his arm, in to a little droplet puddle on the floor. It was only then did Burnwell smirk back at the detective when he saw him observing.

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The rest of the room waited in apprehension as to what the injured man would do next. But to shake things up a bit, Sherlock made the first move.

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“Sir George Burnwell I presume.” Sherlock flatly spoke, eyes never leaving his bright blue ones.

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__

There’s an uncomfortable silence as everyone waits for a response from the blood stained man, turning to look at one another, everyone covered by at least half a shadow casted by the moon. Light and dark in _all_ of us. It was only when Sherlock was about to speak did a pesky, low chuckle fall from the lips of Burnwell.

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The detective furrowed his brow, blinking twice at the odd and quite frankly sacrilegious response. Not one person stood in the small vicinity didn’t ignore the sensation of the room suddenly become colder by the sound.

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Burnwell’s eyes narrowed, a face splitting grin planted to his face. And in one swish move, he finally let some words spill.

__

__

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“You’re as daft as you look, virgin boy.”

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In an instant, John sprang back to action, storming towards the injured man holding him back against the wall with one firm hand. Mary pointed the gun towards Burnwell too, a precaution, even though she had already shot him minutes ago.

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__

The room fell silent but the most roaring silence spilled from the detective. Sherlock froze, the words hitting him in the temples as hard as it did the first time round. The last time he was called a virgin was by The Women and not forgetting where she got that from; James Moriarty. Sherlock watched Jim in his mind palace and to his comfort, the criminal was looking on in pure apprehension which shrouded the underlying anger that sizzled away at the responses from Burnwell.

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Sherlock hesitated slightly, eyes near leaving his, “How utterly boring, could have at least made the effort to reimagine a new nickname for me rather than using old tricks.”

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He chuckled again, as dark as the first, “Stop with ya constant bullshit, my main man. You got me, arrest me, I’m done.”

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“Well, isn’t that a crying shame because I am not done with you,” Sherlock thirstily responded, “Firstly, real name?”

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Burnwell smirked, the pain from the gunshot wound, eyes of the room on him and the circumstances he is under not affecting him in the slightest. The detective sighed heavily, the man’s cockiness and rudeness creeping into the sides of him.

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“Alright then, the coronet? What exact job did you need it for?”

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More silence. More smirking.

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“What was the intentions with Mary?”

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Finally, a shift in gaze to the tear filled eyes of the girl to his left. Burnwell swallowed slightly, a sign of regret.

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“Oh, it was a mistake? Falling for her? Or is it all an act like you’re putting up now?” Sherlock egged on.

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“It wasn’t a mistake.” He broke, eyes now firmly on the detective, a shimmer of anger fluttering past him.

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"A mistake in the sense of the job or just in general? I mean,” Sherlock paused, “Look at you. You’re a strong a man, a proud man. A man that steals for fun, a man with no underlying worries or morals or attachments. Falling for such a girl was never part of the plan.” Sherlock hissed.

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He then was greeted with another set of dark, bitter chuckles. Burnwell rolled his head backwards, laughing to the sky like he was laughing to some sort of profound God. But then, ever so slowly, he dropped back down to earth, eyes a darker shade of blue than before.

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Sherlock breathed a little too heavily at the sight. This man was an animal.

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"Oh, Mr Holmes, you think ya all so clever when everything ya missing is in plain sight? Like that silhouette of yours across the road. I knew ya were here, I always know when you’re here. Slyness has never been ya strong point. Oh but look!” He points to the detective who had horror across his face like some sort of disease, “He doesn’t have a clue!”

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_“Kill him.”_ Moriarty spat from behind his detective. Anger was pouring across the mind palace like a flood and it sank in the bones of the detective all too quickly. The criminal could see the confusion, the pain, the muddled path that Sherlock was seeping. It angered him too much, so much that Jim punched the wall again, another sentimental action on his part and it had all caught up with the detective. It was all too much.

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Within seconds, Sherlock lunged towards Burnwell, his hands grasping the front of his black shirt, he was inches from smashing his head to the wall, inches from killing him, for teasing, for playing, for hurting Jim.

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Sherlock breathed rapidly, “NAME? YOUR NAME?!”

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More silence, a wider grin than previously (if that’s at all possible.)

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Sherlock slammed him against the wall with all his strength and rage that continuously pulsed through his veins when in the company of a man who was hate personified.

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“My name, or the name you have been running towards all, your, life?” Burnwell riddled away, breathing hard from the detectives abuse.

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The consulting detective froze, keeping Burnwell in his grasp. The detective’s eyes dulled to a blank, still motion, like water settling after the ripples. To his astonishment, Morairty also froze, like the man in his mind has already worked it all out. Sherlock doubted himself as he readjusted his grip on the man in front of him. Then again, doubt is a fickle friend.

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“W-What are y-you talking about?” Sherlock stuttered all too embarrassingly.

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“My name is irrelevant ma boi but this name…” he popped his lips together, “…it’s on the tip of your downfall.”

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“…N-Name?” Sherlock whispered.

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Within a matter of minutes, Sherlock William Scott Holmes was a wreck in a room which sat in his London, his domain, his _empire._ Though with all that knowledge, all that declaration, the shadows of this city held secrets and past times like a pirate’s chest. Victory always came in bite-sized doses, and Sherlock cherished when he could. But at this very moment it was loses in chunks and masses.

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The room was thick in tension, it was a miracle that the room had not shattered into the room below with the weight of trepidation. Sherlock waited for the name, the thing he has been running towards his entire life. Towards was a humorous way to put it when the focal saying is running away from, but this, this, implied it has been haunting him for most of his life.

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Moriarty was the most anxious out of them all. This was just as puzzling as the name.

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Burnwell looks to the floor briefly before raising his head to detective with a cocky grin and one four syllable word.

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“Moriarty.”

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The whisper of the name, the tinge of victory and the smell of blood clawed the name back to the surfaces of London, the United Kingdom and to some extent the world.

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Instead of responding with a normal response of saying the man should, and is dead, Sherlock is left speechless. He releases his grasp on the man falling backwards, horror scratched the surfaces of Sherlock’s face, he crushed his brow together as he was dragged away from the man by Mary as Lestrade and John pinned him and cuffed him against the wall.

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The blood of the detective ran extremely hot, _not_ cold at the anticipation of his nemesis’s name being whispered among the living but the anticipation that the man may be alive. Watching. Living. And always, watching.

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“Sherlock? Sherlock look at me! Look at me Sherlock, it is okay, look at me!”

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Mary was trying her hardest to snap the detective from the dark heat that surrounded him. With all the chaos that surrounded him, he focused on Moriarty sat against the wall in his mind palace, that wonderful, dark, enticing man. He separated himself from the souls that surrounded his senses in the Baker Street apartment and focused on him.

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_No, he is dead, I watched him die. He died, brains on the floor, brilliance stolen in a breath, in a beat of the heart. Dead, gone, long dead._

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But with all that clarification, all that truth, that evidence, his eyes slowly raised to Burnwell being dragged out the room by his best friend and the smirk on his lips as he glared at Sherlock, _that_ was enough to doubt that Moriarty was indeed, _colliding empires_ with his own, with a kiss and a twist.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, alright! Give me your worst in the comments! I am not proud of this chapter but it had to be done! Much love and, until next time xo


	26. A Kind Of Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a fill in chapter. I'm sorry for the astoundingly long wait but hopefully a bit of sheriarty will let you forgive me. Much love my darlings xo

26: A Kind Of Magic  
\- One golden glance of what should be.

_“Will you just-“_

_“No.”_

_“Look, I have to align the knuck-“_

_“Get off me.”_

_“I’m trying to be-“_

_“For the love of all my Westwood’s, stop fussing, you absolute pleb.”_

_Sherlock sighed, eyes closing briefly at the childness that seeped from the thirty-something year old criminal like smoke in the night. The man was more difficult than a child. A child wouldn’t be as stubborn as the dark haired man. How the detective wished Moriarty would be more cooperative._

_“At least have the courtesy to reinvent a new insult for me.” Sherlock smirked, attempting to grab his left hand again._

_But within seconds, Jim flinched his agonising broken hand away from the taller man, turning his body away from him on the couch in 221B. It was strange how Moriarty decided that 221B was the location for their next encounter. Everything was an exact replica to the reality version of Sherlock’s flat. The only difference was the flicker of artificial light that strummed through the large windows, slowly warming the room._

_To Sherlock, this version of his flat was superior because everything about it didn’t scream his name, or John’s or the characteristics of a central London flat; it screamed James Moriarty. It was the version Jim had painted, the strokes of a brush that teared its way into the corners of the flat and crawled back to the edges._

_When the detective’s eyes scanned the living room, there were obvious changes that were oblivious to the curly haired man the first time. Observing the second time, his chest suddenly became heavy with admiration and warmth and it sank to his stomach, anchoring Sherlock to James Moriarty like a collision between two stars._

_His skull had been delicately dusted, like somehow the person who cleaned the delicate ornament knew it meant a great deal to the detective. Sherlock noticed his chair had shifted toward the fire at an increased angle of twelve degrees. Not a significant change but enough that an observer like Sherlock and James could recognise. The books had been sorted alphabetically and the thought of such a repulsively common act had taken place in his room was not sat in the heart of the detective. It fizzled away like bubbles in a glass bottle of Coca-Cola. The mere fact that Jim had sorted them alphabetically, not only fascinated Sherlock to know why he was precise in everything he did, to the simplest of tasks to the gory details of an assassination but because it was Jim, a criminal, who Sherlock never thought would have a spare hour to do such a prolonged task._

_Sherlock looked to James sat next to him on his couch, still stroppy and moody at the kindness of the taller man. Moriarty would argue it was sentimental and ordinary for such a touching and solicitous act to be carried out by the detective. But in all honesty, Sherlock didn’t give a single damn._

_“You’re not worth such precious brain power.” Moriarty teased, a slight smirk at his lips._

_Sherlock huffed, grabbing the man’s broken hand with such force he could cause a new crack in his broken hand, “Oh, I think you’ll find all your exquisite brain power is always for me.”_

_Jim’s face curled into one that can only be described as excruciating pain, with traces of pure resentment and defeat. He was pulled towards the detective by his broken hand, sliding across the leather couch. Jim’s right hand came to his wrist, trying to either grab his hand back or steady the pull. In all honesty, he had no idea which one it was._

_Their thighs slammed together as Jim was dragged to Sherlock’s side of the couch. And in both men, a spark ignited in their stomachs at the sudden contact. Sherlock looked to the smaller man for a reaction to the touch but Jim’s face was still a bundle of pain and indignation that was a little difficult to read._

_“Ow! You heartless fuck!” Jim barked in a high Irish accent, eyes floating back and forth between Sherlock and his hand._

_“Oh, do shut up and do as you’re told for once.” Sherlock snapped back, holding his hand a little less tightly as he clutched an antiseptic wipe, unfolding it with his large fingers._

_Jim scowled at the curly haired detective, but now, he didn’t resist the help he was not wanting to no end, “The only time I will attempt to do as I am told is when I am in hell and even then I can’t make any promises.”_

_The detective turned to the smaller man, unfolded cloth in hand, “I think heaven would suit you more. The good can get awfully dull.”_

_“Oh,” Jim smiled to the detective, eyebrows raising, “Is that an indication that you will miss me if I am unfairly separated from you?”_

_Sherlock blankly looked at his hand, “Make of it as you will.”_

_Jim smiled widely, shark teeth flashing against pink plump lips, “That is an unequivocal yes then.”_

_“Shut up.” Sherlock replied, the topic of conversation revealing too much to the criminal._

_To stifle the criminal in his hold, he planted the antiseptic cloth to the red, swollen and bloody knuckles. Chlorhexidine Digluconate and Alcohol mixing with the tender areas of the Irishman’s broken knuckles would cause an undoubtable sting and the hiss that fell from the criminal’s lips proved just that._

_Moriarty hissed loudly, attempting to pull his hand away from the sting but the detective pulled his hand gently back, placing his broken hand in his large warm palm, grasping his fingers slightly to calm him and to the astonishment of Sherlock, Jim didn’t decline. He made a tiny growl under his breath but held steady._

_The tips of Sherlock’s fingers were just at the pulse of the criminals on his wrist and he felt the decline of his heartbeat, a slow and steady pace settling in his being. It was just like the touch of Sherlock calmed him. No. Of course not. Obviously a big fat no. But could it be because of that reason?_

_In a flash, he glanced up to the criminal, whose eyes were fixed on Sherlock. Staring, glaring. Sherlock couldn’t work out which one but it positively made his fragile and strong heart skip a pitiful beat at the sight. Even when Sherlock refocused his eyes on healing his knuckles, he could feel the dark brown, warm and chocolate eyes staring at him, not blinking once. Absorbing, drinking every fibre of Sherlock and the detective shivered. All of James Moriarty’s focus on him, and him only._

_In all this, an underlying question was sitting in the fabrics of the room. The night’s turn of events in reality had teared a new hole in the detective. Sir George Burnwell had implied that Moriarty was still alive. Kissing the streets of London, burning bridges down in foreign kingdoms and killing with that smirk of his. Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat._

_“You might be alive in reality.” Sherlock softly said, more like a whisper._

_Jim didn’t tear his gaze away from him, hand still softly placed in Sherlock’s, the feeling of his hand in his comforting in the most revolting way._

_“Might being the operative word here.” Moriarty breathed back, eyes falling to his hand where the detective gently dabbed away the blood and dirt._

_“Doesn’t make a difference. You could be…living.” Sherlock answered back, pausing at the last word._

_The thought of the criminal still sharing the same oxygen, living under the same sky, admiring one another from a distance physically made Sherlock tremble in trepidation. But he was anxious in a positive way. All that silent grieving, all that time wasted. Could years apart change them? Bring them closer? Force them apart? At the end of it all, Sherlock wasn’t a fool and he knew if Moriarty did fake his death, it was for good reason._

_The chance of reunion, a new game started an unknown fire within the detective. They were the same, in every single form of the word. Intelligence, beauty, observation, characteristics, views, opinions. The only thing that separated them was their line of work but that didn’t stop them. It never did and it never would. Sherlock would dance to his cases, all to impress the criminal, to sway him – to what? Not even Sherlock knew. Jim would make extravagant cases, beautiful puzzles all for the detective, no one else. Why would he? Jim didn’t have to impress anyone. He had no reason to. But he did, for Sherlock and vice versa._

_A never ending circle of kiss and chase in every single version of the word._

_“Do you want me to be living?” Moriarty asked, eyes locked on the lagoon blue eyes of the detectives._

_In that moment, Sherlock’s eyes met his, eyes saying everything between the men. Eyes said more than words. You can read people with their eyes. When they are lying, when they are full of desire or hurt, sadness, happiness, everything was in the eyes. And to the consultants that stared at each other’s very different eyes, no one could understand what was being said with their eyes except for them. A secret and unexplainable communication._

_“You know the answer to that. Don’t act like a doofus.” Sherlock retorted, eyes falling back to his hand._

_It was only then did Sherlock and Jims fingers gently tighten on each other. Such a simple movement was so intimate for the consultants. Never had they ever been so close in ways that seemed so far apart. Even if this wasn’t real, it seemed real enough. Sherlock noticed Jim swallow hard, eyes dropping to their hands. The detective still brushing the antiseptic tissue over his knuckles. The sting now dulled to a soft ache._

_“I’m touched… But then again, who wouldn’t want me alive again?” Jim replied with a slight smirk._

_The detective rolled his eyes, “Could you boost your ego anymore?”_

_“Oh detective, don’t tempt me.”_

_“Boost your ego any further and you will not fit that tie of yours around your neck.”_

_“Can’t have that. My Versace ties are what make me, darling.”_

_“I wouldn’t say that.”_

_“Oh? What then? My charm?”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes again, placing the now red stained cloth to the coffee table._

_“My personality?”_

_“Can’t even understand your personality.” Sherlock bitterly said more than intended. Frustrated he couldn’t deduct the criminal._

_“I puzzle the great Sherlock Holmes. Music to my ears.” Jim smiled, eyes closing softly._

_Sherlock grabbed a cotton pad, spilling some antiseptic cream to it, “Narcissist.”_

_“And proud.” Jim smirked flirtatiously to the detective who placed the cotton pad to his knuckles._

_It didn’t register to the detective until a few seconds later that his fingers were stroking gently over Jim’s fingers. And to the bewilderment of the taller man, Moriarty didn’t reject the touch. God, the man in front of him, with dark absorbing eyes and a neck that deserved to be bitten for being so sharp against his suit was so difficult to read. He was a mystery, an indecipherable being, who was layered with thick walls that were impossible to tear down. But Sherlock wasn’t going to give up. Never on this man._

_His fingers were so soft like Moriarty moisturised, like he took great care looking after himself. Well, he was a narcissist, that’s what they do. His fingernails were short and neat. They weren’t hands of a hard worker, a labourer. These were hands of a man who didn’t get their hands dirty. At a closer look there was little scars. Cuts, burns from over the years and the detective had the yearning to know what every single scar was from. How he did it, did it hurt and did it heal easily. Stupid, pointless things that meant more to Sherlock than he cared to admit._

_Sherlock hesitantly pulled his fingers away, but instead of letting go of his small hands he held it in his hand. And in seconds, their grip on one another tightened, only slight but enough for both men to register. The detective grabbed the bandage, unravelling with one hand while his other was firmly locked with Jim’s._

_Sherlock had never felt such a simple contact feel so comforting. A burning sensation in his stomach and he wondered it Jim had it too. Probably not, the man was immune to such ordinary things._

_“Who would have thought it…” Jim smirked as Sherlock started wrapping the bandage around his hand._

_Sherlock glanced up at the smaller man, “Thought what?”_

_“You, a domestic goddess…” Jim teased, “… Tending to the wounds of the man he is meant to despise.”_

_“Who said that?”_

_“The newspapers.” Jim smiled widely, teeth flashing. Implying to the newspapers from the Reichenbach Fall._

_Sherlock sighed, “Tabloids are paid to lie.”_

_“Oh, so you don’t despise me?”_

_“Give me a reason to and I will think about it.”_

_“So forcing you to kill yourself wasn’t enough to make you hate me?” Jim smirked._

_“It was the game.”_

_“Ohhhhh I must try harder.” The criminal sang, watching the detective delicately wrap the bandage around his knuckles and hand._

_“Don’t.” Sherlock stated, pausing the wrapping and looked to him._

_Jim gazed up to the detective, eyes searching his, “Don’t what?”_

_“Don’t try and make me hate you.”_

_“Reasoning?”_

_“…Because I never have and I never….will.” Sherlock stated, eyes staring straight into his chocolate filled orbs._

_It was then and only then did James Moriarty’s face change for a fraction of a second. Anyone else would have missed it but not Sherlock. He noticed everything about the man in front of him. He had enough time in his mind palace to study his facial expressions and the one that flashed against his face was one to add to the photobook. It was one of… realisation, of bewilderment, of acknowledgement. A face you’d make when someone confesses a secret to you, or a loving gesture. It was a foreign face to the criminal. It was new, it was thunderstruck beauty._

_Sherlock finished tending his wounds, tucking the last part of the cloth into the rest of the bandage and like any other person he would let go of the criminals hand and they’d speak no more of it._

_But he didn’t… And neither did Jim._

_Their hands were still firmly together and still to the amazement of Sherlock, Moriarty didn’t hinder. Jim’s eyes were fixed on their hand, like he couldn’t bear to look at the detective in front of him. Only then did it occur to the detective that their thighs were still pressed together like paper. The warmth suddenly against his leg from the heat that spilled from the criminal like a fireball sent bolts of heat through Sherlock, a hot flush. He maybe short, but he is feisty._

_It was at that moment of intimacy and silence that Sherlock was being disturbed from the outside._

_Always he would be disturbed at the wrong times._

_Sherlock sighed heavily, eyes closing briefly in frustration at being interrupted at such an intimate moment he wanted to last forever. But reality was an unequivocal mess at this very moment and he had no choice but to return to the dull side._

_“I…better go. I’ll be back though.” Sherlock said, not moving from the criminal._

_“Of course.” Jim replied, nodding slightly, “I suppose I should say thank you but I’m not that type of a guy. Plus, I didn’t ask for help.”_

_“You didn’t refuse.” Sherlock frowned,_

_Moriarty shrugged followed by a smirk, “Didn’t want to intrude.”_

_“Bollocks.” Sherlock huffed, “You loved every second of the attention.”_

 _“Don’t be absurd. If I wanted your attention I would have killed someone. My way of saying ‘Sherlock, darling, don’t you want me?’“ Jim flirted, grinning like a cat._

_“Always the narcissist.” Sherlock smirked back._

_“You looooooove it.” Jim sang, his lips forming the perfect “O” shape as he spoke._

_“I will never admit that.”_

_“Oh, you will one day. And I don’t mean by choice.” Jim implied with a leer._

_“On that note, I shall depart.” Sherlock smiled, slipping back to reality hesitantly._

_“Don’t miss me too much.” Jim flirted._

_The detective smiled widely, feeling a little shy and a bit too warm at this encounter with his criminal. It was a kind of magic._


	27. High For This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, alright! Lay your pitchforks down because after 4 months I am finally back with a fresh practically shit chapter, but by the end of it, life will never be the same again and I think this was always coming wasn't it?
> 
> I just want to thank you all for your wonderful comments, and to everyone of you who left me a kudos or a bookmark. You have no idea how much I appreciate it. I'm just a British kid who loves Sheriarty more than I care to admit but its pretty obvious isn't it?
> 
> So, thank you if you have been with me since the beginning or you have just joined. It means a great deal to me. So, here you go darlings. This shitty chapter is all for you, I hope you enjoy it! Much love x

27\. High for This  
\- You don't know what's in store, but you know what you're here for.

Scotland Yard was a depressing place. An outstanding building filled with heroes of London from impractical detectives, aggravating forensic scientists and oblivious police officers. The decoration was just as dreadful. Offices of plain walls, half broken desks and waste paper bins full of scraps of forgotten offences and evidence. The whole building repulsed Sherlock to the core and he had the unfortunate task of sitting in Gary Lestrade’s office, waiting on the news on George Burnwell.

John, however, was content sat in the pale discoloured room, hands in his lap. Sherlock scowled at the satisfied expression on the doctor’s face. How could he find something so repulsive so pleasing?

It frustrated Sherlock that much he loudly huffed, scrambling to his feet while pulling his coat tightly around him. Just like if he covered himself from the dullness and nauseating feel of the room then it might go away. He pulled his collar up like an antenna, snuggling into his coat as he paced from the chair to the window and back again in a four step rhythm. Everything was completed in numbers, in rhythms, in sequences. From the orbit around the sun to the beats within a melody, something the detective found rather comforting. 

John watched on as the detective became more and more agitated, a frown forming to his brow, “Will you just relax, he will be here soon.”

Sherlock turned to the doctor, a blank expression on his face, fingers in a steeple formation before his lips, “I’m calm, I’m fine, what makes you think that?”

“You’re pacing like a madman!” John raised his voice slightly, nodding to the detective.

“I pace when I think.” Sherlock replied before he resumed pacing.

One, two, three, four. Turn. One, two, three, four. Turn.

John folded his arms across his chest, “About Moriarty?”

In a moment, Sherlock paused pacing, eyes locked in front of him. It only then occurred to him that Moriarty within his palace had become awfully still too, though Sherlock saw a smirk on his lips, positively relishing in the fact he was topic of conversation. And in all honesty, Sherlock always thought about him. _Always._

After a hesitant few seconds, the detective turned to the doctor, eyes wide and fingers still vertically against his lips. He couldn’t tell the truth, John would undoubtedly think he was mad.

“Why on Earth would I think about J…Moriarty?” Sherlock stuttered nearly slipping out his name, much to the criminal’s amusement.

John stared back a few seconds, shrugging, “I don’t know. What Burnwell said? Thought you might see my side of things.”

“Your side of things?” Sherlock quickly retorted, frowning however it was more like an irritated scowl.

John nodded slightly, “Yes…you know about…Moriarty being alive.”

For all the nicotine Sherlock had inhaled and the tea he had drank in his very complicated and distilled life, he has never thought about Moriarty as much since the days he was alive. But the possibility of the most notorious criminal still strolling through the streets of London like it was his empire was exasperatingly thin. No matter how many times the detective replayed the moment that James Moriarty shot himself in the roof of his mouth, Sherlock couldn’t find anything new. It was always the same. That tangy, warm salty taste in the air. The same coldness he felt to this very day.

“When are you people going to realise that I watched him commit his own suicide? That I stood there, hand in hand with him, and looked on as he collapsed to the floor, blood spilling across the roof like a spider’s web. I tasted blood, I tasted everything he could have been. Everything he destroyed.” Sherlock replied with more honesty than intended. 

But it was true, he couldn’t lie to his criminal or himself. Never had the detective felt so much pain and loneliness in an instance, in one gunshot. It would haunt him until the day he dies, until the day he might see James Moriarty again. If he can of course. The criminal stayed silent to this in his mind palace, the honestly that poured from Sherlock in that moment hitting him in the temples. The criminal for once felt guilty, something that Sherlock felt instantly.

“You talk about it like it hurt you.” John laughed, shaking his head slightly.

“It, did.” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, blue eyes pouring into the doctor’s like a waterfall.

At the moment, Sherlock couldn’t put a price on John’s face. It was one of horror and disbelief at the previous statement that Sherlock let slip. It didn’t register with the doctor, he would never understand. Why would he? He doesn’t observe the criminal like he does. Doesn’t see his charm, his mystery. Jim’s broken form, his intelligence and the same hate for the beings that fill the dusted covered land they call home. Ordinary people with simple minds and simple lives. Never would John see that, and Sherlock was glad that he couldn’t. Jim’s focus for Sherlock only and vice versa. That was the way it would always be for them. In life and in death.

Sherlock focused on Moriarty at that point and Jim nodded to him. Jim’s understanding of Sherlock’s trail of thought made him feel so warm that he opened his coat that was wrapped around him. They had an understanding that no one could pinpoint, not even themselves. But the mystery was the thrill of it. How they pivoted around one another like two planets. There was no soul shaking like it.

It was to the relief of Sherlock that Lestrade burst through the room. Granted, the detective inspector was 23 minutes late but the timing of this couldn’t be any more perfect. Both Sherlock and John watched on as he made his way to his desk. He collapsed in his chair with a sigh followed by silence.

It infuriated Sherlock. Obviously, both he and John were not in this pale, dull office for the fun of it and Lestrade pottered around like the matter at hand was not urgent. The detective’s facial expression immediately turned into a scowl, impatience getting the better of him.

“I’m not particularly enjoying yours or John’s company at this precise moment so if you could cut to the chase that would be much appreciated and trust me it is for your safety, not mine.” Sherlock bluntly threatened, beginning to pace the room once again.

“Sherlock…” John muttered under his breath, only causing the detective to ignore him.

Lestrade sighed, closing his eyes before he rubbed them, like he was trying to rub away something he had just witnessed. “You were right, George Burnwell isn’t his real name… however he is sticking to what he said.”

“What? About Moriarty?” John questioned, eyes narrowing.

The Scotland Yard inspector rubbed the back of his head, sighing a little, “Yeah… he isn’t exactly confirming he is alive though we have reason to believe he is.”

As much as Sherlock wanted to believe this himself, he chuckled at his statement, turning to face Lestrade in his chair with an amused expression. The detective’s eyes were wide in amazement at how utterly inconsiderate the people who lived and breathed around him were being over his own statement and evidence. That James Moriarty brought death on himself, that the detective witnessed the criminal’s lifeless but warm body still to an untouched mystery, his dark brown, chocolate filled eyes stare into nothing but death. But they were still beautiful, still golden with depths of cosmos and a star buried deep within them, even in death.

“Oh? And what is the reason? Because if he could fool Mary Holder then there is no doubt he could fool you.” The detective snapped, now severely agitated at how the world wasn’t listening to him. Though with this being the main emotion right now, loneliness also settled into the detective’s bones, now suddenly realising how much Jim really did mean to him. And to the relief of Sherlock, Jim immediately noticed this, instantly diffusing warmth across the detective’s chest to make him realise he wasn’t alone, that he would always be here for whenever the detective needed. Somehow, the criminal thought it was something he should always promise to the detective, to repay him with a lifetime of company for taking it away from them both in reality. 

Lestrade stared up to Sherlock, a hand coming out to explain his point, “His identity, and his name.”

“Which is?” John piped up, leaning forward slightly.

“… Sebastian Moran.” The Scotland Yard puppet said after a necessary pause, glancing up to Sherlock who stilled at the name, blue eyes wide with an emotion he couldn’t even pinpoint.

The curly haired man stared out of the office window, eyes drifting into the disguised glass windows of the building opposite. His lagoon eyes gazing into nothing in particular as he became more and more distant from the conversation taking place between John and Lestrade – two men Sherlock didn’t want to be around at this precise moment. Though it was rather obvious who he wanted to be with though Jim was forcing Sherlock to stay in reality, to not give in to him just yet. It wasn’t because Jim didn’t want him to – naturally he wanted Sherlock with him in his mind palace always but to make him not give in to emotion not so easily. Something Jim had to teach himself from a young age.

“Sebastian Moran? The guy we’ve been trying to track down for the last few weeks?” John questioned, eyes wide in disbelief as he glanced between the sitting and standing detective.

“Yeah… Mycroft mentioned something about that. Told me to keep an eye out for him but I never thought he would be right under our nose like that.” Lestrade replied quietly in a sigh as he rubbed his eyes once again.

John cleared his throat, glancing up to a deadly still Sherlock for a moment, “So… he’s sticking to what he said? That… James Moriarty is alive?”

“Yeah…” Lestrade replied as he drawled out the last letters, rifling through for Moran’s statement.

"Yeah… says… has been living in Eastern Europe for the last two and a half years – still a Consulting Criminal. Says Moriarty was responsible for the assassination of the Ukrainian embassy last year… for the derailment of a Russian train in Moscow. And… a few other things…” Lestrade trailed off as he glanced up to the detective and back to John rather nervously.

The army doctor instantly noticed this and narrowed his eyes, “And? What other things?” 

Lestrade however stayed silent at this, glancing up to a silent detective who was in a different dimension, a vacuum where he was screaming on the outside but dead on the inside, a feeling Sherlock had now come accustomed to. After a long moment Lestrade glanced down, eyes slowly drifting over to John as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“He is um… apparently… I don’t have solid evidence of course, only Moran’s word but…” Lestrade paused before sighing heavily, “… He is responsible for the prevention of Sherlock’s exile. Moriarty on all those screens? He planned it. He specifically said.. ‘You think Moriarty would let his little detective walk right into his death? Do you even understand what the both of them are?’” 

Sherlock’s eyes shifted at the words of Sebastian Moran, glancing to Lestrade out of the corner of his eye for a split second. The detective’s mind was working at the speed of light, trying to process everything Moran had let slip. As much as the detective wanted to believe it, to believe James Moriarty was roaming freely across the land of Europe, causing havoc, a chaos in the middle of order, burning holes in black lagoons of hate and battery filled fields of ordinary lives – he couldn’t, not when fact was ruling fiction like a monarchy over the head of another. 

Jim, much to Sherlock’s misperception was oddly silent, eyes fixed on his black suit trousers. He didn’t know for once what Jim was staring into or what he was thinking about in his dark, breath-taking mind but it was something that made Sherlock feel rather nauseous, like the bile in his stomach was burning him inside out.

It was a split second, a second that Sherlock had glanced away from the window. But when a building shaking bang was heard from outside the thin layer of glass, nothing could replace the breath that was stolen from Sherlock’s lungs as his eyes fixed on the striking colour that now was painted on the building opposite. 

In an instant Lestrade and John snapped their heads to the window, both of them hastily getting to their feet as they glanced back and forth between each other.

“What the hell was that?” John asked rather worriedly as both men headed to Sherlock at the window. And upon arriving beside the detective and his eyes latching on the sight across the street on the 8th floor, nothing could match the face of horror on John’s and Lestrade’s face. 

In bright yellow spray paint was two striking words and a disturbing symbol and from this day, life would never be the same again much to the detective’s trepidation. And every single time he read it, again and again like a vinyl stuck on the same record – only his name could be heard through the screaming of the silence. And once again he read it, heart hammering against his ribcage:

**“Miss Me? :)”**

And all Moriarty could do in Sherlock’s mind palace was sweep away the dust from his suit jacket like nothing had changed – or like nothing ever would.


	28. Best Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment you have all been waiting for perhaps? Much love darlings x

Chapter 28: Best Mistake  
\- Playing with the hand that we were dealt, in this game.

_“I knew you’d fall for it. That’s your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it.”_

_“Do it? Do – do what?” Sherlock panicked as he stared into the skyline of London, trying desperately to catch up with the criminal who was bursting at the seams with sheer smugness and self-righteousness. The detective had an overwhelming feeling to punch him, kiss him and thank him all at the same time, like the man was a barrel of outstanding intelligence Sherlock himself couldn’t even reach._

_Though after a few split seconds it hit Sherlock in the temples as he subconsciously blinked in realisation. He turned towards Jim, slowly but never unwilling moving to his side at the edge of the rooftop._

_He could smell him from this distance – that petrol soiled field of roses, with hints of peppermint and a bucket load of Armani cologne. It was a deadly solution, something Sherlock had come to crave not only on himself but on his bedsheets – to make him remember this man was his only match. Intimately and intelligently._

_“Yes, of course. My suicide.” Sherlock quietly replied, voice sounding rather defeated but in all honesty, if he was going to die in the hands of another, James Moriarty would be the only one with the honour. And Sherlock was willing to hand the gun to him now if that was an option._

_Jim folded his hands behind his back with a smirk, licking his lips at the detective – his detective, all his. Now and always he would be under his thumb. It was beautiful, to see the detective fully at his mercy and if the criminal had it his way, he would have Sherlock on his knees – not only blowing his self-esteem but his loaded gun as well._

_“‘Genius detective proved to be a fraud.’ I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales…” Jim muttered as he came to stand beside the detective and the criminal’s deep, soulful eyes locked on Sherlock a moment, admiring him silently, like he always had since they met. He hesitantly pulled his gaze away from the dark curls and high cheekbones to peer over the wall with the taller man, noticing the rather sheer and high drop._

_“And pretty Grimm ones too…” Jim finished a little quieter, voice breaking slightly at the end as he turned his head to gaze ominously at Sherlock. Though the detective ignored this to a certain extent as his blue lagoon eyes fixed on the drop below them, heart racing not only at the fact he was minutes away from death but he was minutes away from dying at the hands of the man who was his equal in every sense of the word._

 

\--

 

No matter how many times he replayed the moment in his mind, the detective found nothing knew, no crack in the lens, no lost words. It was the same heartbreak, same last moments with his criminal, his Jim, his equal. It never changed and every single time he reminisced over it, Sherlock felt his waters anchor to Jim just a little more.

In the silence of 221B was nothing but darkness, the only light emitting from the low embers of the fire that had slowly burned to the forgotten last flames in a star in the 24 hours Sherlock had returned from Scotland Yard. The detective sat there in his chair, eyes softly closed with his fingers once again in a steeple formation against his lips. He had nothing to say, nothing to say not only to an empty room but to Jim in is mind palace who was waiting patiently for Sherlock to say something. Though 24 hours was enough silence for the criminal and he huffed, a face of disappointment gracing his features.

 _“Can’t hide from me forever…”_ Jim called from the inside, Irish accent thick with an underlying strike of concern. Though Jim would never admit it – though Sherlock already knew. 

Sherlock sighed a little under his breath, non-moving as he listened intently to the criminal only, his focus was always on the man. “Apologies… just… thinking…” 

_“Rather loudly if I might add. It’s somewhat unnecessary.”_ The criminal retorted as he sat effortlessly on the edge of St Barts roof. The detective focused on the location, finding it rather strange that after the revealing that Moriarty could in fact be alive, that his criminal chose the place it all happened for the both of them to reminisce.

“Then tell me how you done it.” Sherlock demanded quietly. 

_“Done what?”_

“How you survived. If… you survived.”

_“Oh, don’t be so bloody ordinary, Sherlock. We don’t do that.”_

“Avoiding the question.”

 _“I’m merely trying to avoid the ordinary tendencies that is pouring from you like a tap. I don’t want to be associated or have that inflicted on me. I am too fabulous for that.”_ The criminal ended with a smug smirk as his legs hung carelessly off the edge of the rooftop in the detectives mind palace. Not at all fazed that he was a minor movement away from death.

Sherlock scowled at this, raising an eyebrow, “You are rather determined to avoid questions that need answering. I watched you die, you can’t be alive.”

Jim rolled his eyes before shaking his head, obviously annoyed at the topic of conversation. _“Don’t disappoint me, Sherlock. We never had the tendency to explain each other’s actions or emotions to one another when my heart was beating and it will remain that way – even in death.”_

“Though you had the emotional urge to tell me why you committed suicide, isn’t that the same thing?”

_“That is different.”_

“In what way?”

_“That is a chemical defect of sentimental values on my part. Even criminals have feelings, Sherlock.”_

“So asking you how you faked your death is sentimental?”

_“No, it is damn right boring.”_

“Why?”

 _“Because you don’t want to know how I would have done it.”_ Jim finished, smirking intently now, shark teeth flashing against pink, plump lips. And Sherlock couldn’t help but stare at the lips of the criminal, noticing every crinkle and crack from where he smirked like the devil or pouted like a child. And much to Sherlock’s embarrassment, Jim noticed him staring. And just to make it worse, the criminal plucked his lips together like a kiss which caused Sherlock to fall further into his waters. 

Jim licked his lips as he gazed out to the skyline of a desolate London, like it was his fallen empire, _“You don’t really want to know how I done it… if… I done it…”_

Sherlock at this fell silent as he focused only on Jim’s thick, Irish accent. He noticed the lilt to the words, the teasing, and the sexual edge to everything he drawled from his tongue. Effortlessly, like the barrel of a gun, firing strikes again and again until it hits you in the place you never wanted him to touch.

 _“You said yourself… I am your mystery, everything you can’t work out, everything you can’t read, deduce and understand… Touch, caress or handle.”_ Jim purred, voice merely a whisper, a faint smoke curl of a cigarette as he finished the sentence. It sent Sherlock’s heart swirling into a clamp, his chest tightening in a despicable desire that he never knew could ever sit in the centre of what he called temptation. 

Jim licked his lips slowly once again, smirk widening as he felt everything he was doing to Sherlock, the words he spoke hit him hard, in every sense of the word. 

_“Where would be the fun in telling you how I would have done it? All that… boring conversation when we don’t do conversation like that… not unless it’s teasing… whispers…”_

“Teasing…”

 _“Teasing… all that… winding you up… making you work… making you move like a waaaaaaveeeee…”_ He drawled, Jim’s own body moving in a wave like motion as he leant back, rolling his neck side to side. 

“I don’t want to know…” Sherlock quietly agreed in a whisper against his fingers that sat against his own lips as he watched Jim intently, watching has his body move fluently in a wave, almost imagining the bone and muscle moving under the skin to make such a fiery soul move so softly, so effortlessly. It was sexually enticing, something they both had never taken a step towards, not directly. Always it was side stepped, not avoided but subtle, just to keep the other one guessing. 

But Sherlock was unware that this was Jim at his darkest, at his most manipulative. He wasn’t only sexually attracting the man towards him but he was exploiting Sherlock, making him divert away from wanting to know how he would have faked his death. This was manipulation at its finest, something Jim could easily do to anyone he encountered to make them fall, to crash and burn like a raging meteorite in the dead night sky and Sherlock was the easiest of them all. He was weak for the criminal, even more so now and Jim wasn’t complaining when the man felt the same. 

Within 30 seconds, Sherlock had come from being stubborn, cold and wanting to know how Jim could have faked his death to not wanting to know at all. For the thrill of the chase, for the mystery, for the criminal, much to the detectives obliviousness. 

Jim smirked victoriously to himself, closing his eyes and much to the detective’s shock a barely audible moan left the Consulting Criminal’s lips. Only Sherlock could ever notice something so slight, so lost and Sherlock had never heard something so beautiful, so pure. Something he wanted to hear again, something he needed to hear – all for himself only and Jim realised, a small dark chuckle leaving his lips as he opened his eyes once again. Though within seconds his chuckle and turned into a black hearty laugh. Almost manically, insanely causing Sherlock to open his eyes to the faintly amber lit living room of 221B, eyes widening in panic at the laugh.

“What? What is it?” he panicked as he sat a little forward, eyes searching the area he was staring into, though his eyes were actually scanning Jim in his mind palace who sat on St Barts roof, laughing feverishly.

 _“Oh… God…”_ The criminal cried in a laugh, shaking his head as he stood from the roof, wandering slowly around it like he was trying to walk off his laughs.

Sherlock stood from his chair, mirroring Jim, the opposite sides of the coin, the reflection in a puddle. His blue eyes were wide in horror, not understanding what was happening at all which infuriated the detective to the extent he felt like he could explode.

“What? What have I missed?!”

Jim paused laughing at this as his dark eyes opened, gazing right up to the detective from his mind palace. The man victoriously smirked darker than any black matter in the universe, finding it hard to not burst into laughter once more.

_“A detective, a man of extraordinary skill and intelligence misses the evidence right under his nose.”_

“I… I don’t under-“

_“-How many times have you gone over… and over… and over us on the rooftop? How many times have you replayed those moments? The moment we held hands, the moment I died, the moment we nearly kissed?”_

“I… well-“

 _“-Let me rephrase it for you detective. Let’s make this piss easy for you to understand.”_ Jim darkly responded as he dragged his feet to the edge of the rooftop, standing on the ledge, peering insanely down to the dark abyss below like it was home, like it was the only way out. 

Sherlock watched on in horror as he looked on at Jim standing on the edge of the rooftop. In utter panic he tried to push back into his mind palace to get back to Jim, to pull him away from the edge but Jim was stronger, forcing Sherlock to stay in reality. He felt him try to push through the wall and he darkly glanced up to the detective, dark brown eyes glittering with anger and psychosis, suddenly a different man than a minute ago. And Sherlock couldn’t fathom how easily he switched like the flick of a light.

 _“NO! No don’t you fucking dare! You listen! Listen carefully because I am saying this only once, Sherlock! ONLY ONCE!”_ Jim snapped, the muscles in his face and neck tensing as he screamed his words, almost like he wanted the world to know that this was it, this was the show going on, like it always did.

Sherlock breathed heavily with wide fearful eyes as he watched on in pure horror at the sight. He felt his palms sweat and he couldn’t move from the spot, his feet not working properly like he was full of guilt, drowning in a pit of uncertainty and distress though Jim was the complete opposite, positively not at all phased he was inches from the death, from falling. 

_“So… let me rephrase it, Sherlock. Hm? How many times did you miss my so obvious clue? The dream? The one?”_ He darkly explained, falling silent a few moments for Sherlock to catch up though the detective was so far behind and he didn’t know what he was meant to be searching for. 

_“You think I would make all those references without good reason? Oh, come on, you’re not stupid – or at least I didn’t think so. I planted all those clues, all those significant lines, riddles that you overlooked every single one.”_ Jim laughed darkly, teeth flashing against the shadow on his face, the pinkness of his lips.

The detective breathed rapidly, mind working to the speed of light to catch up, to find the answers but nothing came, he didn’t understand and Jim was winning, once again.

 _“Riddles. I said to you from the beginning to start to love riddles - that they would forever be printed to my lips but you missed it all, all of it!”_ he bellowed, almost an annoyed tone to the way he spoke, causing Sherlock to swallow hard as he watched on in complete and utter fear.

Jim darkly smiled as he returned his gaze to the sheer drop below him, eyes wide with mania, with some sort of disturbed obsession.

 _“Tell me… did it hurt when you done it? When you fell? Oh no… wait a minute, you didn’t did you, darling?”_ the criminal almost moaned as he glanced up to the detective for the last time. 

_“I… Owe… You…”_ Jim quietly smirked as he winked at Sherlock before in a split second he fell from the roof in his mind palace, falling like a fallen angel to the black abyss of the London pavement.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror at this as he screamed Jim’s name deeply into the darkness of the Baker Street flat. And just as he was about to breakdown in a fit of sobs and pained screams, a whopping smash happened behind causing the detective to react instantly and fall to the floor to protect himself.

The detective breathed heavily with his head in the crook of his arm, the coldness of the winter air that breezed through the city streets now whistling through the flat. Sherlock laid there for a few moments until he felt the situation was safe enough to explore, instantly jumping to his feet as he stared at the widely smashed Baker Street window. His eyes scanned the glass scattered across his chair and the floor surrounding it, his breathing increasing in utter disbelief at the sight. 

After a moment he stumbled to the window, glass crunching under foot as he peered out of it with wide blue eyes to see any sign of life but just as predicted there was no one out there, now 12:22am at night. The detective slowly leant back in, heartbeat increasing by 27 percent above his resting heart rate, becoming slightly distressed at what happened moments ago. But it was when Sherlock pulled the curtains to keep the draft out that he heard a thud that vibrated his right foot. He frowned subconsciously, an instant reaction before he opened the curtains again to see a brick with something rectangular connected to it. 

Instantly, Sherlock felt uneasy at the sight, eyes widening a little as he slowly crouched down to pick up the heavy object with both slightly shaky hands. For a moment he stared at it, eyes wide before slowly turning the brick to see the object attached to it and nothing could replace the air in his lungs that was stolen away in a gasp. His eyes widened even more, his breathing now quickened to 77 percent above his resting heart rate – enough now to cause a panic attack. 

Attached to the brick was a book, precisely Grimm’s Fairytales with the original 86 stories inside them. Near enough the same book from the day they had to find the kidnapped kids over 2 years go. Though it wasn’t the book that startled him the most – it was the note attached to it.

_**“You didn’t think I would just disappear did you?** _  
_**Come on, Sherly – I Owe You, remember?”**_

It wasn’t signed, not by him, but Sherlock knew it was him, knew it was the Irish criminal and nothing could replace the adrenaline he felt spark through his veins at the fact that James Moriarty was indeed Stayin’ Alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has commented, bookmarked or Kudos my wacky fanfiction. I never thought I would get this much praise. Much more to come! Leave a comment of what you think so far! And thank you once again! x


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